Etched
by TheGirlWithTheDinosaurTattoo
Summary: The Browning family continues to be hunters in a world that never stops trying to kill them. Follow Grace and Serendipity Browning as they learn about the struggles of hunting life as they race to save their father in a hunt gone wrong.
1. Chapter 1

::Hey everyone! It's been a crazy couple of weeks. I have been across the country and back for a funeral, started school again, and plenty of things in between. I'm happy to see you back and I hope you enjoy my next story, "Etched." This is what I refer to as a Browning Sister Chronicle; meaning there is not much mention of the Winchester boys, but it's always fun to see Grace and Serra's history. I hope you hang with me on this one because we'll be meeting an important character or two for the upcoming story arc back on Winchester Ranch.

Let me know what you think! Hope you enjoy.

Love and internetty hugs,

The Girl With The Dinosaur Tattoo::

...

Chapter 1

It's rare these days to find something that is hand-crafted; to know that someone worked with the individual pieces, putting their time, effort, sweat, and tears into building it from the ground up. In nineteen eleven, Colt Manufacturing Company began production on a forty-five caliber handgun designed by John Browning. It was simple and it was efficient.

It was deadly.

In nineteen eighty-two, one such set of M1911 Colt forty-five pistols were created. The set of twin forty-fives were chosen to be engraved by an artist in Ottawa, Canada, and sold at auction to one of the last remaining mobsters in Las Vegas, Nevada. He hoped that simply owning them would be enough to drive the fear back into the people that worked for him.

The bullet holes in his chest and head proved he was wrong.

The Twins were then taken from their owner and passed along to his son; a hotel owner in Reno with hopes of going legit from the world of organized crime. They stayed in the hidden wall safe for almost a decade, until his hotel caught fire and he was forced to empty the safe into a duffle bag, taking with him what he prized most. Among the cash, jewels, and valuables that had resided in the wall safe were the set of twin silver-on-black, elegantly hand-engraved Colt forty-five, semi-automatic pistols.

Two years later; completely broke and alone, one of those pistols aided in the mobster's son taking his own life out of despair. Little did he know; The Twins were not unhappy with his decision; they were in the midst of a journey towards their one and only true owner.

…

"You bagged and tagged everything here, right, Stan?" Oliver shouted from across the blood-soaked carpet towards his partner. "I wanna hurry this the hell up and get home to Sandy. She's gonna have my hide if I'm late for dinner again."

"Yeah, yeah, I hear you," Stan replied as he sidestepped the bloody remains that sprawled out around him. "The evidence cart is up the hall, but the guys missed this one. I think it's the twin to the gun he's holding."

Oliver and Stan turned their gaze to the slumped and broken ex-hotel owner and tilted their heads in tandem, trying to inspect the gun that was clamped in his blue-tinged hand. "Yeah, maybe," Oliver agreed. "Until we get the stiff back to the morgue, I don't know if we'll be able to confirm it." He turned to his partner and shrugged. "What's it matter if they match?"

"I dunno, man," Stan started, pulling his pinched fingers across the top of the evidence bag, sealing it closed. "I've always wanted a set of engraved guns." He paused and grinned sheepishly. "Seems like something the cowboys would have had."

"What, are you gonna stash the guns? Take them out of evidence before we get back to the station?" Oliver chuckled, shaking his head. "If you do, make sure you give me some warning. I wanna make sure we get our alibis right."

"Shut up, douche bag," Stan growled, pushing past his partner. "Maybe they'll go to auction."

Oliver licked his lips and held up the evidence bag, inspecting the gun that his partner had shoved against his chest. "It's a very elegant gun," he commented. "Very Old West."

Stan shook his head and held up a finger, moving it in a circle in the air. "Well, boys and girls," he started, talking to the rest of the men and women that were scattered around the room. "Time to wrap it up. Suicide. No need to alert the media."

"Glad you're here to tell us this shit," Oliver commented as he dropped the evidence bag carrying half of the matching set on the evidence cart as he walked by. "I've got a pot roast to eat."

…

Later that night, as evidence was being logged, one piece at a time, the lone evidence clerk double-checked the number that Officer Oliver had scrawled across the evidence bag. She couldn't decide if the last number was a nine or a four and finally, she sighed and shrugged, deciding that it was a four. It probably wouldn't matter anyway; the death of the ex-hotel owner was ruled a suicide anyway, so it's not like the judge, jury, or executioner would come banging down her evidence locker door to find the gun that matched the one that held the bullet that finally ended his life.

A sudden slam on the outside of the evidence locker jolted her out of her reverie and she watched the entrance video feed as it flickered in black and white. There were three men in masks entering the building as she watched and without thinking, the evidence clerk reached out her hand to press the silent alarm that triggered the locks surrounding the evidence locker in the county precinct.

The window bars slammed down into place, locking her inside of the room, surrounding her with plastic bags full of evidence. She had been working for the police for almost four years now and knew that robbery of the evidence lockers was a possibility; people never wanted their stories told. She just never assumed it would happen to her in the middle of the day in Billings, Montana.

"Open up!" the bandit screamed from his side of the steel door. "Just because this glass has got wire, don't mean a bullet can't still find that pretty face of yours!"

The evidence clerk reached for the phone that was just to her left and before she realized what was happening, bullets were being fired from all angles, coming in through the tiny windows that surrounded the evidence locker. The leader watched with a grin on his face as he saw her dive for cover.

The evidence bag she had been holding fell to the cement floor and he elbowed the man next to him. "Look!" he shouted, a grin sliding across his face. "There's the box we need. I saw it come in today."

"Cable's all prepped," the other bandit answered. "Truck's ready."

"Well, quit fucking telling me about it and get me in there so we can get the fuck out of here. It's the middle of the fucking day and I ain't gettin' caught a second time."

Without warning, the steel door groaned under the weight of something pulling it from the bar peeking from hole in the glass. The evidence clerk looked up at the door and shielded her eyes as the creak became louder and louder still. Eventually, the door broke open and three men piled in, not hesitating in pistol whipping the evidence clerk as she lay on the ground, attempting to shield herself from the masked men.

"Please," she begged.

"Shut up and we might let you keep breathing," the leader grunted. He turned to his men. "Is that it or not?"

"Looks like it's all here," the second man answered quietly.

The leaded nodded, lifting his gloved hand up to wipe the sweat off the back of his neck. "Alright then," he replied. "Grab it and let's go."

His men picked up the cardboard evidence box and as he stared down at the pathetic looking evidence clerk, he realized she looked too much like his sister to shoot her like he planned. He sighed heavily, rolling his eyes and looked away, making eye contact with a beautifully engraved silver-on-black Colt forty-five.

Calling to him from within its evidence bag, he bent to pick the pistol up with his gloved hand and he sighed. "I'm not gonna fucking shoot you, but I swear to fucking God, if you pick up that phone before you hear us drive away, I'll come back, find your fucking family, and burn them alive."

She nodded, tears flooding her eyes. He reached and tore the phone off the wall, stripping it of the wiring and tossing it aside. He shoved the plastic-bagged gun into the back of his pants and did a complete circle. "Looks like I'm all done here."

The clerk squeezed her eyes shut, breathing silently as he stomped out of the room. He hesitated, only for a second, to glance back at the room. There was another identical gun in a plastic evidence bag on the floor, not far from where he picked up the first one. "They're a matching set?"

"Oy! Come on then!" one of his men shouted. "Badges will be here soon!"

He didn't flinch, but instead remained in place, staring at the clerk. She nodded to his question. He picked up the second bag and stared at it through the plastic. "They came in together?"

More nodding.

"Thanks, love," he said, chuckling. "I'll treasure them."

With that, he was gone and she heaved a sigh of relief, letting her sweaty head touch the cool concrete.

…

And so it went for years; The Twins would assist in some crimes, some rescues, but always ending up in the hands of another. They never stayed in the same hold for too long, but always remained together; completely inseparable.

One cloudy day in August in rural Kansas, they sat, gathering dust in the glass case of a pawnshop. They had been stripped from their last owner in a game of cards and the owner of the pawnshop knew how much they were worth. The Colts were hand engraved, well kept, and the grips hadn't even shown wear yet. He loved them more than anything he had ever carried in his shop, and for a few moments, he considered keeping them for himself.

That's when he got the call from an old friend.

"Hey, Billy," a familiar voice greeted him from the other end. "It's Tru."

"Truman Browning," Billy sang, smiling to himself. "How the hell are you?"

Chuckling and happy to hear from his friend, Tru nodded and sighed. "Things are going as well as they can be with two girls. They're taking over my house, man."

Billy laughed, leaning his back on the glass case that housed The Twins. "Jesus Christ," Billy shook his head in disbelief. "How old are the girls now?"

"Grace just turned seventeen and Serra is eleven going on thirty." Tru sighed and laughed with his friend. "It's horrifying."

Shaking his head, picturing Truman's girls, he smiled mischievously, "Grace brought a boy home yet?"

"Shut the fuck up, man."

Billy laughed, crossing his arms in front of him. "What can I do you for, Tru? You never call for nothing." Billy turned, hearing the bell ring over his shop's entrance. He smiled tightly at the man and two teenaged boys that walked in, glancing around nervously. Holding the phone away from his face, Billy greeted them. "Be right with you, gentlemen."

The older man nodded politely and turned away from Billy, eyeing the glass case full of weapons. Holding the phone back to his ear, he listed to Tru as he took a breath. "I need a gun, man," Tru began. "I need something that is concealable, dependable, and won't ever jam, no matter the metal." He sighed. "You got anything like that?"

Billy nodded, thinking. "I've got a few right now. Cute little nine, a thirty-eight revolver, and a set of forty-fives that would make your head into a canoe."

"The forty-fives are probably too much. I'm looking for something for Serra."

Billy's face fell slightly. "Man, you just said she's eleven. The hell she need a gun for?"

"It's getting bad out here, Billy," Tru continued. "Last week, we tried to take on a wendigo and Serra stayed in the Chevelle while me an' Grace flushed it out. Went after Serra and she was alone with nothing, Bill. I almost got her killed because I haven't sucked it up and realized that she needs to be able to handle her own weapon."

Billy sighed as the two teenagers leaned on his glass case, pointing at The Twins. "Alright man, but you should probably just come down here and check things out. Bring her so she can feel them and decide for herself. I'll even let you take her out back to try them on for size."

"Thanks, buddy," Tru sighed, rubbing his face. "We'll be there tomorrow morning. Hold the nine and the thirty eight."

"What about the forty-fives?" Billy asked, eyeing the Twins.

Tru rolled his eyes. "You really think my eleven-year-old daughter is gonna be able to fire a set of twin forty-fives?"

"She's a tough cookie," Bill argued.

"Fine," Tru said. "Hold them too."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

"What can I do for you, gentlemen?" Bill Griffin turned towards the man and two teenagers as they walked idly around his pawnshop.

The older man, possibly the boys' father, approached the glass case Bill stood behind. "I'm looking for something and an old friend of my pointed me in your direction."

Billy made a face behind his salt and pepper beard, and nodded slowly. "I got a lot of crap in here," he said. "You're gonna have to be a bit more specific." The boys approached the glass case as well, each looking just like their older companion in their own ways, confirming in Billy's mind that they were father and sons.

"Well," the man continued, "Bobby Singer sent me to you. Said you were the man that would be able to hook us up with what we needed."

The gears clicked into place as Bill stared at the man in the leather jacket. Bobby Singer pointing someone into his shop could only mean one thing: the men that stood before him were monster hunters.

For years, Bill Griffin had tended his pawnshop without anything exciting happening to him, but then that man; that ratty baseball cap wearing, bearded know-it-all had barged in through the glass doors of his shop and about fell through the first glass case he came to. "I need a silver knife," he had almost shouted at Bill. "Pure silver. Argentinean if you got it."

Bill had what this man had needed and after paying, he had disappeared through the glass doors again, not being seen again for months. The second time Bill had interacted with Bobby Singer; he had brought something to sell: it had been a dagger encrusted with rubies and diamonds. It came in a hilt that was worth more than the Queen's dowry, Bill figured. Dry mouthed and nervous, Billy had offered him a price much lower than the dagger and the hilt had been worth, but obviously, Bobby had been desperate.

Bobby had taken the cash and walked away, leaving Bill with one piece of advice: "Don't friggin' touch it with your bare hands."

"What?" Billy asked, leaning back and pulling his hands away from it.

Bobby Singer turned back towards him, pulled off his stained baseball cap and ran his hand through his hair and replaced the cap on his head. "It's cursed," he said quietly. "The dagger…it's cursed, if you believe in that kind of mumbo-jumbo."

Staring at the man, Billy had licked his lips and glanced down at the blade warily. "Cursed?" he asked. "How do you know something like that?"

"Because it just took me an ancient Mayan spell and about sixty-two of the rarest ingredients I ever heard of to help me grow back this part of my hand."

Bill stared where Bobby pointed to the raw, pink flesh of his left hand. "Re-grow," he repeated, completely deadpan. Bobby nodded. Billy decided to press the matter. "You're telling me that this," he pointed to the dagger on his counter, "cursed off part of your hand and you were able to re-grow it."

Bobby blinked slowly and raised his eyebrows. "Yeah, man," he answered, annoyed. "What, you want me to draw you a picture?"

That conversation had begun one of the most interesting friendships that Billy had ever made. He was introduced to the world of monsters, where your nightmares were real and things you never dreamed of hunted you in the night. Overnight, Bill Griffin had been inducted to Bobby Singer's connections and artifacts off all kinds began to trickle into his shop. Suddenly, he not only had a pawnshop, but he was the monster hunter's number-one supplier of all things holy, protective, pure, and spellbound.

Behind a heavy curtain, of course; you didn't want to scare the Bible-thumpers.

Now that these men stared at him from in front of his glass display case, he knew that they were here for something that he most likely had stored in the back of his shop. "Well, gentlemen," he began, stepping from around the glass case. "You're probably looking for something on _this_ side of the veil."

He held open the curtain that hid the boxes of cursed objects, ingredients for rare spell work, daggers made from varying trees and roots, and the centerpiece of it all: a black book bound in human flesh that Bill had won at auction almost five years ago. Bobby himself was unable to translate the ancient text that was scrawled through the book, but he knew someday, someone would pay a pretty penny for that monstrosity. Every once and awhile, Bill swore he could hear the book breathe.

The man stepped inside the curtain and glared at the book, which sat in the middle of a painted Devil's Trap in the middle of the wooden floor. "You should probably have a line of salt around that too," he muttered, gesturing at the book.

Bill nodded. "Oh, I do," he said, smiling. "The paint of the trap has about six pounds of kosher salt mixed in. Holy water too."

The man smiled lightly and nodded. "Bobby was right," he complimented. "You know your lore."

"Bill Griffin," Billy said, extending his hand towards the man in the leather jacket.

"John Winchester," the man answered, taking his hand and shaking it heartily. "These are my boys, Sam and Dean."

The boys nodded, lingering near the entrance of the back room. Bill nodded in reply and turned back to John. "What are you here for, Mr. Winchester?"

…

Hours later, John, Sam, and Dean Winchester walked towards their glossy black Chevy Impala, laden with heavy books and three elm daggers, hoping to kill the next monster they had on their list. On his last trip out to the car, Dean, the older boy, hesitated at the glass case in the entryway of the shop.

"How much you want for the forty-fives?" he asked, pointing to The Twins.

John and Sam hesitated in the doorway, waiting for Dean.

"Sorry, boy," Bill answered the teenager. "Those are on hold for a friend of mine. If he don't want them tomorrow morning when he comes, I'll give you a call."

John tilted his head at his son. "What do you need a set of forty-fives for? You've got your own."

"But there's two," Dean argued. "Two's always better than one."

Rolling his eyes, John nodded to Bill. "Thank you for your help," he said. "I'm sure we'll be back sometime soon."

Dean hesitated a moment longer and winked at Bill. "Let me know if your buddy doesn't take them off your hands."

Billy Griffin winked back at Dean. "You got it, son," he said, watching the glass door swing shut behind them.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Truman Browning leaned on the counter in his kitchen, drinking his lukewarm coffee as he thumbed through the morning's newspaper. His eldest daughter Grace was moving around on the second floor and he knew that she would be down in the kitchen momentarily. He braced himself for the argument that was coming, knowing that he was doing what he needed to do to keep both his girls as safe as he could.

Tru was a monster hunter. He had tried to avoid the hunting life that most of his ancestors had led, but meeting his wife (God rest her soul) all those years ago pushed him into the nomadic monster hunting life. Evangeline had come from a long line of hunters as well, and who was he to tell her that he was too chicken shit to do what she could do.

Evangeline's father had lectured him for hours the night he proposed, over twenty years ago, about how hard it was to watch your family go through what they had been through. Truman agreed wholeheartedly, knowing what was in store for the family if they continued on the hunting path, but the back of Tru's mind hummed with the possibility that Evangeline's family was being protected in a cosmic way. He just could never put his finger on why.

Tragedy struck the families hard and fast, losing his new wife's parents, his parents, and his brother all in a matter of fourteen months right after they had been married. Now, Evangeline had been dead seven years and Tru still woke up with nightmares. After she had been taken from them, Tru promised himself that he would do anything he needed to do to keep their girls safe, and so far, he had held up his end of the bargain. The wendigo was too close, though. Serra had been too close to being a victim of his stupidity.

It wouldn't happen again.

Getting Serendipity a gun wasn't something that he wanted to do, but he knew she would be able to handle, no matter her age. She was a good shot and she needed to be able to defend herself when he and Grace weren't around. He had spent much of the last week convincing himself that his eleven-year-old daughter would be able to keep herself safe if it came down to it, but now he would need to spend the morning defending his argument to his seventeen-year-old daughter.

Grace had become Serra's mother more than her sister over the past seven years, and Tru knew that he had only himself to blame. He wasn't present enough, always so distracted with the next monster on their list. The girls had become wildly self-sufficient and Grace had even gotten herself through school without a bit of help from him. She was set to graduate from high school next year, still holding on to that better-than-Bs grade point average, but he could feel it in the air: things were about to change and he needed to know that his girls would be ready for life without him.

Grace skipped down the steps, her footsteps light and almost silent. She pushed the swinging kitchen door open and smiled at Tru, still braiding her hair over the side of her shoulder. "Hey, baby girl," he greeted. "Sleep well?"

"Not really," she shrugged, reaching behind him for the mug on the countertop. "But what else is new?"

Tru smiled sadly. His daughter was both blessed and cursed with extraordinary abilities, mind-reading being one of them. Through her touch, she could see flashes of another person's life through their thoughts and memories. Grace had also had visions of the future, though she had only mentioned them to her sister, worried, Tru was sure, that he would try and capitalize on what she saw. He hadn't told Grace that her baby sister had let the secret slip late one night while they were on a hunt together, but Tru didn't see a reason to bring it up, especially considering he was hiding the biggest secret out of the entire family.

Shaking off the lack of sleep his daughter was getting, Tru decided to plow onward. "Eat some breakfast and then go wake your sister up. I'd like to be on the road in about an hour."

Grace looked up from pouring herself a cup of coffee with a confused look on her face. "Where are we going?" she asked, tilting her head. "I thought Paul and the guys were going after the wraith?"

Tru nodded, setting down his paper. "They are. We're going down to Deerhead."

Grace narrowed her eyes and tilted her head, already suspicious. Quietly, she asked, "What are getting from Billy?"

Taking a deep breath and staring down at the Formica countertop, Tru closed his eyes and braced himself. "I called him last night looking for a gun for Serra," he explained. He refused to look up at his eldest daughter because he didn't want to see the look of distain flash across her face. Tru knew that she would already be setting up a counter argument and preparing herself to protest as much as humanly possible, even if it came down to her laying down behind the Chevelle, refusing to let him drive away.

Her face was stone when Tru finally got the nerve to look up at her. "Grace," he sighed, tilting his head. "You and your sister need to be able to protect yourselves, even after I'm gone. You can't expect Serra to carry a four-inch switchblade all her life and be able to use it to defend her life. She needs a gun." He lifted his hand to gesture towards her. "You have a gun!"

"I was thirteen when I got The Judge, and even then, you had a little hissy fit about me packing, especially a forty-five. Serra is eleven, Dad. Eleven."

Tru took another calming breath and stepped away from Grace, his hands held up submissively. "Grace, I know, but you and your sister are completely different people. She is so much more—"

"I swear to God if you say 'more mature' than I was, so help me."

He pressed his lips together, shaking his head. "No, she's not. She's impulsive and destructive, but she's a better shot and she's good with a weapon, better than you at her age, I'd wager. That girl has more weapons' talent in her little finger than you do in that entire body, little girl."

Grace lifted her eyebrows and nodded sarcastically, "Oh, sure, Dad," she ventured. "Insulting me is a great way to get me to go along with all of this."

"That's not what I'm trying to do, Grace," Tru pleaded. "Please just listen to me a second."

She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned into the counter, gesturing to the air. "By all means," she said airily. "Please continue."

"You and Serendipity have different skills, different talents entirely. You are a genius when it comes to a hunt. You're smart and inventive and have a better memory than your mother ever did. You know more about spells and lore than I can shake a stick at, but as a warrior, Gracie, Serra's gonna have you beat. It's just a matter of time." Tru took a deep breath and continued slowly and softly, trying to get his eldest to calm, if only a little. He decided to go all in, continuing, "You are my Amazing Grace. You can read _people's minds,_ sweetheart, and I'm sure that's not the extent of it. You're just beginning to tap into your potential and Grace, you're going to need someone to protect you when you can't do it yourself."

Grace simply stared, her blue eyes unblinking, waiting for her father to continue.

Tru took a step closer to her, still with his hands out. "You and your sister are the entire world to me, Grace, and if anything ever happened to you because of a decision I made, I don't know what I would do with myself. She needs a gun…the life we lead…she needs to be able to defend herself. To defend you, if it came down to it."

Grace licked her lips and glanced at the floor. "I'm not happy about this," she replied. "Just so you know. I'm not happy about any of this."

"I know, kiddo," Tru replied, approaching his daughter, preparing to hug her. "I'm not really, either, but this is something I can control."

Shaking her head, Grace took a deep breath and backed away from her father. "Please, don't touch me," she whispered. "Things are louder than normal today."

Tru nodded, taking a step backwards. "I'm sorry to hear that, Gracie. Anything we can do?"

Grace shook her head and rubbed her face. "I think it has to do with the fact that I'm not sleeping. The less sleep I get, the louder the world is when I finally get up."

Pressing his lips together, he tried to understand, but the truth was that his daughter was a creature he didn't really get. There were so many secrets he wanted to tell her, but knowing the damage it would probably do to their relationship, he restrained and buried it even further back into his subconscious. There was no need for Grace to know about her history now. It would only create unnecessary tension and strain on their already problematic father/daughter relationship. She would find out eventually.

Today was about Serendipity.

"Alright, so are we good?" Tru asked, leaning back on the counter.

Shrugging, Grace lifted her eyebrows. "I guess," she replied. "I still don't like it, and if she ends up shooting me, you have only yourself to blame."

"She's not going to shoot you," he answered automatically.

Grace tilted her head and rubbed her face again. "Yeah, I'll remind you that you said that when I'm lying in a hospital bed because had a tantrum when she couldn't find one of her boots."

…

"Hey, come on," Grace said, tossing a clean shirt in Serra's direction. "I've woken you up twice now."

Serra grumbled into Grace's pillow; claimed from the night before when she had crept into her sister's bed to curl up next to her. Grace had been talking in her sleep and Serra had heard from her own bedroom. Finally, knowing that Grace could probably use some comforting, she had crept down the hall and slid into bed next to her big sister. Grace had quieted immediately upon feeling Serra's presence, just as she always did, and Serra considered more and more to just sleep in her sister's bed every night, no matter how much she argued against it.

"Serra, get up," Grace pressed, ripping the covers off of her and opening the blinds. "Dad wants to leave in twenty."

Finally rolling to her back, Serra rubbed her eyes and squinted at Grace. "Where are we going?" she asked, groggy. "I thought Paul was doing the wraith?"

"Yeah," Grace answered, pulling on a pair of jeans. "He is. We're not going after the wraith. We're going to Deerhead."

She held her head in her hands as she sat up, her long, dark auburn hair rolling over her shoulders and hiding most of her petite frame. "What does Billy have that we need?"

Grace clicked her tongue and tossed a pair of jeans at Serra, hitting her in the face with them. "That's for me to know and for you to get out of bed and get dressed to find out." Grace grabbed a tan canvas jacket and pulled her hair out from her fresh shirt and turned back to her sister. "If you're not downstairs in five, I'm going to toss cold water on you."

"You know," Serra slurred, still struggling to sit. "Positive reinforcement does more for my psyche."

"Yeah, I know," Grace replied, heading out of the room. "So get up and I won't come back with the ice water. There, see? Positive."

Rolling her eyes as soon as Grace was out of the room, Serra let herself fall back into the pillows and bury her face once more, covering her face with her arm.

Twenty minutes later, after some loud arguing and some wet, cold sheets, Serra was fumbling with the button on her jeans as she tripped down the steps. Her hair was still wet and her back was cold and she couldn't think of enough swear words to fully inform her sister how much she hated her at that moment in time.

"Nice of you to join us," Tru said, smiling at his youngest daughter from his seat behind the wheel of his old, rusty Chevelle. "Wow, you even managed to take a shower?"

Serra shot daggers in the rear view mirror as she slid across the back seat behind her father. "No," she spat. "Grace threw ice cold water on me."

"I told you I would," Grace explained quietly as she sat in the passenger seat next to their father. She slammed the door and turned to smile sweetly at her sister. "You'll listen next time, won't you?"

"I hate you," Serra replied, crossing her arms and staring out the window.

Grace grinned and turned back to the front of the car. "Oh, I know you do," she sighed, laughing. "I love you back."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

The trip from Lawrence to Deerhead took a little over four hours and Grace had made herself comfortable, leaning back in the front seat and propping her feet up on the dash as she listened to her sister snore from the backseat.

"I'm starting to wonder," she began, "if she has some sort of narcolepsy. The girl sleeps _all_ the _time._ "

Tru chuckled from the driver's seat. "She's always been that way," he replied, but thought better of it. "Well," he added, shaking his head. "Not when she was a baby. That girl would wail. We couldn't hear each other speak for the better part of a year."

"I don't remember that," Grace replied.

"Yeah," Tru continued. "She was a screamer. Never happy, not unless she was right next to you." Grace laughed. "Seriously, kiddo," Tru answered. "She would keep me and your mom up all night long and one night when she was about three months old, Mom decided to plop her in bed with you, because you seemed to be the only one Sere ever really wanted. It was the first good night of sleep we got." Tru glanced over at Grace and smiled. "Seems true to this day; saw she woke up in your bed again this morning."

Grace nodded. "Yeah," she replied. "She says I talk in my sleep and apparently, she calms me down."

"That's her side of the story."

"Something like that."

Tru and Grace pulled themselves out of the car and Grace tapped on the back window. "Hey," she shouted at Serra. "Let's go, Sleeping Beauty. We're here."

Serra jumped awake, hitting her head on the glass. She grunted and rubbed her forehead, looking annoyingly at her sister. Still relatively angry, Serra pushed the front seat forward and shoved herself out of the Chevelle and into a standing position, stretching with her arms over her head. Tru didn't wait for his girls; he was already pulling the glass doors open and heading inside.

"Why are we here?" Serra finally grumbled at Grace as she flipped her dark auburn hair from one side of her head to the other.

Grace sighed heavily and shook her head disapprovingly. "Dad wants to get you a gun," she explained. "Against my better judgment."

Serra's dark, hazel eyes opened wider, hearing her sister's explanation. "Seriously?" she whispered, her anger temporarily forgotten.

Pursing her lips, Grace sighed as she nodded slowly. "I guess," she replied. "But I swear to all that is holy, Serendipity, if you shoot me, it will be the end of the world as you know it."

Not acknowledging Grace's warning, Serra pushed past her sister and made a beeline for the glass doors. She disappeared inside before Grace forced herself to take a step.

Finally all inside, the Browning family stood in front of the glass case as Tru talked to Billy Griffin, the shop's owner. Grace sighed, glancing around to see if there was anything new that she needed, but aside from the usual buzzing feeling that radiated in and out of her entire body every time she visited Griffin's Pawn, the shop seemed the same.

Glancing at her sister, Grace saw that she had already turned to press her entire body against the glass, trying to get as close as she could to a twin set of silver-on-black, hand etched Colt forty-fives. Grace rolled her eyes. "You cannot be serious," she whispered, coming to stand next to Serendipity. "You do _not_ need a set of forty-fives. The kick back from those guns would be so hard; they would send you to your ass in no time. You are _tiny_ , little girl."

Serra was so engrossed in staring at the guns; she didn't even look up at Grace. Feeling like she was being ignored, Grace moved closer to Serra and tapped the glass in front of her face. "Serra," Grace said, trying to get her attention. "Serendipity."

"What?" Serra asked as she glanced up momentarily, but not moving from her position. "Did you see them? Aren't they the most beautiful things you have ever seen in your _life?"_

Tru turned away from Billy to stare at his daughters. "Bill's got a nine and a thirty-eight set aside for you," he began, addressing Serra. "Let's take them out back, see how you do."

"I don't want a thirty-eight or a nine. I want them," Serra answered, not even bothering to look up at her father. "Those are my guns."

Tru and Billy exchanged glances and Bill lifted his eyebrows, dusting the edges of his salt-and-pepper hair. "I told you the forty-fives were nice."

Ignoring Billy's sentiment, Tru shook his head and pointed. "Serra," he began. "Your sister is right. The kick on those guns…you're too little, still. You only weigh about seventy pounds, soaking wet. You're way petite, just like your mother. If you ever break a hundred pounds, we'll bring the conversation about having a forty-five back to the table."

Serra finally turned to Tru and looking as if he had physically hit her, she took a step away from him. "You can't be serious," she whispered. "These guns…these are _my_ guns."

"Actually," Grace answered. "They're Billy's guns. Come on," she continued, taking the nine millimeter police issue and the thirty-eight revolver off the glass countertop. "Let's go out back, shoot a few rounds, and we'll see how much better of a shot I am than you."

Serra's eyes flicked from her sister back to the twin forty-fives. "I want to shoot them, too," she replied, pointing to the forty-fives. "They're my guns."

"Why do you keep saying that?" Grace asked. "They're not yours. You don't have any guns because you're eleven. You shouldn't have any guns," she turned to face their father, "because you're eleven."

Serra's eyes flicked back to the case as Billy, Tru, and Grace looked on. "I've dreamed about those guns. I've seen them before and I've shot them before. They're my guns."

"Serra," Grace argued, but was cut off by Serra's hand being shoved into Grace's face, wiggling her fingers tauntingly.

"Touch me. See the dreams I've seen," she whispered. "They're in my subconscious somewhere, I know they are. I've seen them."

Grace glanced at Tru and lifted her eyebrows. Serra never got this adamant about something unless it was absolutely true, to the best of her knowledge. Tru nodded at Grace, giving her permission to look for what she was talking about. As Grace reached to make contact, Billy leaned towards the girls, resting his elbows on the counter as he watched.

Grace and Serra Browning never ceased to amaze Billy Griffin. Tru had discussed his eldest daughter's talents with him in depth because he knew that if it got out into the hunting community, there was a possibility that other hunters would eventually hunt Grace. She was different; a fascinating half-breed that Billy wanted so badly to know more about, and he did his part to help Truman research what they could expect as Grace came into her abilities. Bill kept the research between Tru and himself, mailing bits and pieces to a PO Box that Grace knew nothing about. Truman was eternally grateful, knowing that Bill had done what he could to help him prepare for his eldest daughter's coming of age.

Serendipity was a mystery altogether. Truman described her conception as an accident repeatedly, but Bill Griffin had come across plenty of research validating the theory that the girls were a pair; meant to be together. There was always a balance when it came to cosmic interactions between the planes of existence. Where there was one, there had to be another.

Coming out of his internal monologue, Bill watched Grace as she made contact with Serra's hand and her eyes glazed over automatically, seeing what her sister was seeing in her mind's eye. Grace was only gone about three seconds or so, but the interaction was fascinating to watch.

After seeing what had been in Serra's memories, Grace's blue eyes flicked towards her father. "She's right," Grace sighed, shaking her head. "They're in there. I don't know how or why, but those guns are in there."

Tru pressed his lips together and nodded once at Billy, knowing there was no such thing as coincidence in this life. He unlocked the case, using a set of keys from his pocket and lifted the weapons to the terry-cloth towel that lay across the glass. "They're full of history, from what I understand," Billy began. "Been tossed around for decades; new owners constantly. Seems they're looking for you," he said quietly, smiling lightly at Serra.

She watched carefully as he lifted his hands and allowed her to touch the weapons for the first time. From behind her, Grace licked her lips and shook her head, glancing up at Truman to show her disapproval. "I know," he whispered. "Trust me; this is not what I had in mind."

Following Serra outside, the group brought out the two other guns that Serra had already dismissed, along with ammo for all four guns. "They've been modified, too," Billy was saying, handing Serra a box of forty-five caliber ammunition. "They will shoot pretty much any metal, including silver. Not every gun will do that."

"Silver's too soft," Serra commented. "Jams the barrel."

Billy nodded. "From the mouths of babes," he commented, looking up at Tru with a smile. "Spoken like a true hunter's daughter." Billy took a deep breath and pointed. "There's a target out there, about fifty yards between it and us. You see it?"

Serendipity nodded and squinted at the tiny target. "Why is it so small?"

"That's what's left of the stump," Billy commented. "You forget, little one, that I seem to be the hunter's supplier out here. My customers like to sample the goods before they purchase them."

Silently reaching for the twin forty-fives, Serra hefted them each in her hands and turned them, examining the etchings over the barrel and around the grip. "They're so beautiful," she whispered, turning to Grace. "They look like they're tattooed."

"Don't get any ideas," Tru answered, shaking his head.

Standing in front of him, Grace rolled her eyes and shook her head, crossing her arms in front of her chest stubbornly. "Yeah, they're gorgeous and all, but I'll bet they still knock you down," Grace commented, her voice dripping with attitude.

Serra sighed and glanced back up at the target. "What'll you give me if I hit the target the first time?"

"Respect," Grace answered simply, gazing up at the stump.

Raising the gun in her right hand, Serendipity closed one eye and stared at the target. Grace shook her head, whispering at her sister, "Both eyes open." Opening her eye again, Serra nodded as she listened to her sister continue to mutter instructions. "When you pull the trigger, don't pull fast. Squeeze," Grace continued to Serra as she nodded again. "Square your shoulders and get ready for the kick, but don't pull back."

Tru tapped Grace on the shoulder, carefully avoiding skin to skin contact, and she glanced up at her father, immediately catching the hint. Let Serra try, using what she already knew about firing a weapon.

Nodding, Grace took a step back and tilted her head, watching Serra's movements closely. She was nervous, but was doing her best not to let their father know. Serra always wanted to impress Tru as much as she could, always doing what she had to in order to stay on his good graces. The elder Browning sister was much more hesitant to take orders from their father, and they were constantly butting heads.

Grace licked her lips and took a deep breath as she watched her sister exhale and squeeze the trigger. Serra absorbed the impact of the kick remarkably well, barely flinching as her arm was sent upwards slightly. With a satisfying thud, everyone observing heard the bullet find its target. Serra turned to Grace and turned, grinning.

"Alright, braggart," Grace began sarcastically. "Do it again."

Serra turned back towards the stump and unloaded the clip with her right hand, firing four times in rapid succession and pausing to take a breath, then firing four more shots. The clip hadn't been full, so immediately after her last round, the slide came backwards, telling Serra that she was empty. Without hesitation, as if she had been doing it her entire life, she lifted her left arm and repeated the process, hitting the stump over and over again, tearing the target completely from the wood. The cardboard danced across the field as Serendipity continued to make contact with it.

Grace watched as Truman reached out his arm to touch Billy's shoulder in awe of his daughter. "Holy shit," he whispered, leaning closely to his friend. "She's a fucking natural."

"I guess that means you're taking The Twins."

Tru chuckled and turned around to stare at Grace. "You're seeing this, right, Gracie?" he asked, gesturing towards Serra. "Look at your baby sister go."

"Yeah, it's great," Grace answered, shaking her head. "As soon as she has her next tantrum, she can shoot me instead of just hitting me."

Shaking his head, still chuckling, Tru rolled his eyes. "You're so dramatic," he answered. He approached Serra, resting an arm over her shoulders as she continued to inspect the guns. "Look at you, Hotshot," he congratulated. "I think you've got your sister on the ropes."

Serra turned back to grin at Grace. "Better shot than you," she taunted.

Without a word, Grace closed the gap between them and pulled her own pearl-handled Colt forty-five from the waistband of her jeans. She fired six shots in rapid succession, hitting the tree stump each time, sending slivers of wood into the air. Putting the safety back on her gun, she stuffed it back into the waistband of her jeans and turned on a heel and walked back towards the pawn shop.

Serra, Billy, and Tru watched her walk away and Serra clicked her tongue, annoyed. "She's just jealous that I'm getting two," she muttered, shaking her head but still staring towards the tree stump that Grace destroyed.

"Is that the Colt I sold you last year?" Billy asked, ignoring Serra's comment.

Tru nodded, reaching for one of The Twins. Serra handed it to her father and watched as he inspected the engravings. "Yeah," he answered. "Serra named it 'The Judge'."

"I found its mate about four weeks back. I was gonna call you, but a kid came in and bought it before I had the chance. I needed the cash and figured you'd understand."

Glancing up at Billy, Tru asked, "You're kidding. Would have loved to have the pair."

"I know," Billy sighed. "Sorry. I got a family of hunters that came in. Oldest son needed his own gun and I didn't have anything else to sell him." Bill shrugged then continued, "They were after a coven of vamps. Told him if he ever wanted something else to come back and trade up."

Tru handed the spent weapon back to Serra and nodded slowly. "Looks like this set is staying together," he sighed. "We'll take them."

"How about the thirty-eight or the nine?"

Tru tested out the other two guns as Serra walked back towards the pawn shop. She pulled open the glass doors and set the twin Colts on the towel that was still spread out on the glass counter. Grace was standing across the room, thumbing through an ancient-looking book that smelled of cabbage.

"Jealous much?" Serra asked, approaching her sister.

Grace rolled her eyes and turned towards Serra. "Oh, get over yourself, Serra. I'm not jealous, considering you've been getting anything you have ever wanted since you were in diapers. I'm used to that." Grace glanced back at the book she held. "I'm just upset that you're getting a gun at all. I still think you're too young."

"You were young."

"I was thirteen," Grace paused, considering her thoughts momentarily. "I was _almost_ fourteen."

Serra rolled her eyes. "What, you think I can't handle it? I'm a good shot. You saw me."

"It's not about being a good shot, Serendipity. It's about being so far into a world where my eleven-year-old sister has use for a gun."

"Two. There are two."

Grace sighed and shook her head, turning away from her sister. "Goddamnit, Serra," she breathed. "Look," Grace continued, facing the bookcases full of old relics. The sunlight caught the depression-era glass and sent rainbows across the room as Grace considered what to say. "There's nothing I can do or say that's going to stop Dad getting you a gun."

"Two."

"Will you just shut up and listen?" Serra remained silent, but rolled her eyes anyway. Grace grudgingly continued. "What I need you to promise me is that you're not going to get all cocky. You need to promise that you're gonna keep it holstered until we're on a hunt, and even then, you should be waiting in the wings. I don't want to get shot because you can't lead a target correctly." Grace took a deep breath. "Just because you have a gun," Serra opened her mouth to interject again and Grace held up her hands, "two, two guns, does _not_ make you invincible. If anything, it's one more thing I have to worry about when we're out in the field." Grace clicked her tongue, shaking her head as she took a deep breath, continuing, "I swear to all that is holy, if you shoot one of us, I will rip out your fingernails."

"I'm not going to shoot either one of you. You saw me out there. I'm fucking awesome."

Grace clicked her tongue again, saying, "Watch your mouth. Dad keeps lecturing me on your language." Grace waited as Serra rolled her eyes again, and then continued, touching the glass bowl that saw on the shelf; adjusting it so the light continued to play across it, throwing another dimension of rainbows across the walls. "Just because you can hit a stump at fifty yards doesn't mean that you can hit a running-at-full-tilt vamp as it comes at you, or is running away from you, for that matter. Hitting a stationary target isn't the same as having to defend yourself or others at point-blank range, Serra." Grace took another calming breath and turned to face her sister, the glass bowl forgotten. "Making your first kill is a big deal, Sere, monster or not. It changes you." Grace stared at the ground and breathed slowly. "Once you go down that road, you can't come back."

"It's what we do, Grace."

"Mom never wanted us to," Grace answered. "I guess I was still holding onto hope that Dad would remember that."

"Dad never remembers anything."

A small chuckle escaped Grace's lips and she gazed at her sister, tucking a loose strand of golden hair behind her ear. "You carrying a gun makes you a threat," she whispered. "It makes you a target. You need to ready for that, now."

Serra glanced down at her boots and sniffed. "I am ready for it," she answered quietly.

Grace shook her head lightly, "You shouldn't have to be."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Truman and Billy came back into the shop in the midst of a discussion about the monster that a fellow hunter named Paul was after in northern Montana. Billy glanced at the girls and smiled as he headed back towards the glass case. "I heard it was a wraith," he commented. "We don't see many of them."

"Probably because they look human most of the time," Tru answered. "I read somewhere that the only way to see their true form is in a reflective surface."

Grace stepped forward. "Yeah, they're ghoulish that way," she said, moving closer to the pile of books on the opposite side of the room. On top of the pile was an ancient-looking book called _Heavenly Hosts_. She touched it gingerly, flipping the cover open and inspecting the chapter listings. She didn't notice the glance that Billy shot towards Tru; his eyebrows lifting as he nodded towards the book.

Tru caught the hint almost immediately and his mouth opened, searching for something to say to his daughter, attempting to distract her from the text. "Grace," he spat, "tell Bill what you know about wraiths."

She lingered at the pages a few moments longer and Serra turned expectantly as she leaned on the glass counter next to their father. Finally, Grace allowed the book to close and she stared up at Tru and Billy. "He knows just as much as we do," she replied, tilting her head and furrowing her eyebrows suspiciously. "They look human, feed on the brain using a bone needle that comes out of their wrists, and can be identified when seen in a reflective surface."

"How are they killed?" Bill asked, leaning on the counter, grinning knowingly.

Serra raised her hand, teasingly. "Oh! I know! I know!" she sang, standing on her tiptoes. "Pick me!"

Grace shook her head, not amused. "Alright, drop out. How?"

Pursing her lips, Serra glanced at Tru, testing the waters. "Wraiths are killed with…a…" Tru watched his youngest daughter search her mind for the answer, smiling wistfully at her.

He raised his eyebrows, waiting patiently as Grace crossed her arms in front of her. It was no secret that Tru favored Serendipity and Grace knew it was because she never questioned their father's orders. She was never in trouble with him…she never was threatened or punished. Grace was constantly responsible for Serendipity's mistakes. "Silver, Lady Luck," Tru finally provided. "Wraiths are killed with a silver blade or bullet."

"You didn't give me enough time, Daddy," Serra answered sweetly. "I would have figured it out."

Tru ruffled Serra's deep auburn hair lovingly as she shot Grace a victorious look. Looking away, Grace turned back towards the book she had shown interest in, but Tru was reaching for his wallet and calling her back almost immediately. "Grace," he began, "we need more ammo, right?"

She grudgingly pulled herself away from the interesting book on angels and nodded. "Yeah, and we used the last of our sage and driftwood on the last spell we had to do, out in Claremont."

Billy nodded and headed towards the back room, taking the stack of books Grace had shown interest in with him. Grace's icy blue gaze followed Billy as he carried the stack behind the curtain, then back at Tru as he counted out twenties. Suspicion rattled through Grace's mind, but she was again distracted once her father's cell phone began to ring.

Tru pulled his phone out of his pocket and flipped it open, glancing at the screen before he answered it. "Hey, man, we were just talking about you," he greeted, obviously answering Paul's greeting. "How's Montana?"

Listening hard, Grace could almost hear the conversation as Paul described his hunt in a terrified voice. Truman's blue eyes found his eldest daughter's and she stared back, knowing that the Brownings were going hunting.

…

Billy Griffin piled another box of silver ammunition on top of the two he had already pulled from his extra stores. "This is all I've got, Tru. Paul stopped here on his way north and wiped me out. I just got this yesterday."

"From what he tells me, there's more than one," Truman answered, leaning over the paper map of Montana. Serra leaned close to him, watching where he pointed with interest. She was holding one of her new guns and fingering the safety on and off as she listened. "If it's a family group, we're gonna have a bitch of a time figuring out where they live." He flicked his stare to Grace, who stood with her arms crossed, leaning against the door frame, away from the hustle and bustle of the others.

She didn't like the possibility of being touched accidently.

"Grace," Tru demanded, "if we're gonna do this, you need to be a part of this conversation."

"I am a part of this conversation," she answered, unmoving from her spot near the door. "I'm just a part of this conversation from over here."

"Come look at this map."

Grace made a face. "Why? You're driving anyway. I get it, Dad. Paul is this close to getting ganked," she said, holding up her fingers to demonstrate. "That doesn't make me any more helpful standing next to you."

Tru grit his teeth and glanced down at Serra. "She's impossible," he muttered, turning back towards the map.

Flicking her hazel eyes towards her sister, Serra pursed her lips. She had an understanding of Grace that their father did not. She knew that hunting was not something that Grace enjoyed, but she stuck it out because of her need to protect her family. Serra wanted to comfort Grace, but it was impossible to do so with their father acting the way he was. She wanted to stay on his good side while they were still under Billy's roof, just to make sure the guns she had been dreaming about for years would come home with her.

Serendipity Browning stared down at the weapon in her hand, inspecting the engravings yet again. The roses and lace that wrapped its way around the slide and grip of the gun were elegant and delicate. At the base of the grip on both weapons, there was a symbol that she didn't quite recognize; resembling a rune but with a flare. Making a mental note to tell Grace, she flipped the guns to their opposite side to hide the tiny engravings.

Smiling to herself as she remembered the first dream she had, Serra pictured herself as an adult, bloody and dirty, holding both of the guns out, and firing repeatedly towards an enemy she couldn't see. She had been exhausted and sweaty, and her hair had been matted to her face, making it hard to see, but she knew she hit every target. The adult version of Grace had been there, too, her belly rounded ever so slightly as if she was pregnant, holding out her hands and making walls explode around them, protecting them both from enemies she couldn't see. Serra had originally written the dream off as a fantasy, but when she had seen the guns in the case, staring back at her, it was as if a lost part of her soul had been found.

Serra hadn't told her sister about the dreams she had about the guns, or the fact that the girls had both been adults and were still in the hunting world, obviously, but Serra was sure that Grace already knew, considering that she could read her thoughts and memories by touch. They had never talked about the dream mostly because Serra knew Grace had enough on her plate already with her abilities. Serra didn't consider the possibility that she also had psychic abilities, but the idea that she had dreamed about the guns before she had seen them made her curious about her future.

Unfolding her arms, Grace walked slowly towards her sister and father, resigning herself to staring at the map they had in front of them. Tru glanced up as his daughter approached and slid over to allow her space. "Paul and the guys are up in Whitewater, but they think the family group has hunted as far as Culbertson," he explained, pointing to the map. "It's wooded up there, lots of cabins and water. It would be easy to stay hidden."

"A family group of kills would be more noticeable than that, Dad," Grace murmured. "If there's one or two, I could see them being able to hide the number of kills, but a family group would be a lot harder. It would be in the police logs."

Tru nodded, "I know, Gracie, but Paul was saying that he realized the wraiths are disguising the kills as animal attacks." He stared at his daughter's face as she stared at the map. "Paul was looking in the wrong places. He needed to investigate with Forest Services, not local PD."

Grace glanced up at Tru's smiling face, finally understanding what her father had been trying to teach her. "The total number of kills would have been higher with Forest Services," she said quietly.

"And he would have figured out sooner that there were more than one," Tru agreed.

Serra tilted her head, but was careful to avoid contact with her sister's arm. "So are we going to Montana?"

"We can just leave from here," Tru said, nodding. "You both have an extra duffle in the back of the Chevelle, so we've got what we need."

"I have an algebra test on Monday, Dad," Grace whispered. "I'm finally getting ahead of this class. If I miss it, I don't know if I can make it up."

Tru chuckled and shook his head, staring up at Billy. "Can you imagine that?" he asked, getting a returning smile from Bill. "I raised an academic."

"I think it has very little to do with your abilities as a father," Billy commented. "Something tells me that Grace has bigger dreams than being a hunter from Kansas."

Grace sighed, "We're from Oregon."

"Right," Billy chuckled. "I remember now. Not a mid-western girl at heart."

Tru folded up the paper map and rolled his eyes at his friend. "Thanks for that," he muttered. "Alright, girls, let's get out of here. We can be to Rapid City in ten hours."

Closing her eyes slowly and exhaling as quietly as she could, Grace pushed her anger out of her mind and rolled her head back and forth across her shoulders. Serra was already falling into step behind their father, carrying her new guns, one in each hand. From behind her, Billy cleared his throat, grabbing Grace's attention. She turned on the ball of her foot, waiting to hear what Bill Griffin had to say.

"It's all a means to an end, kiddo," he said quietly. "There're bigger plans for you, Grace Browning."

Grace blinked slowly at Bill Griffin and tilted her head. "What are you talking about, Billy?"

Billy pressed his lips together and shrugged lightly. "Don't worry about the details," he explained. "Just know that there's more for you out there than just hunting monsters."

"Not if my dad has anything to do with it."

"Your daddy will have everything to do with it," he replied. Billy tilted his head and nodded knowingly at Grace, getting a confused look in return. She stared at him and shook her head as she pushed her way through the glass doors, back out into the sunshine.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

The Brownings had been driving for nine hours and Serra was fit to be tied. "Holy _shit_ , I'm hungry," she whined from the back seat.

"Serendipity Adeline," Tru scolded. "Be a lady."

Grace watched her sister roll her eyes in the mirror as she fixed her hair. "It's a little hard to be a lady when my stomach is caving in on itself," Serra argued. "This is inhumane!"

"Grace hasn't complained," Tru said, a rare compliment escaping his mouth towards his eldest daughter.

Serra clicked her tongue. "That's because I'm convinced that Grace isn't entirely human," she said, flinging herself down on the bench seat. "She never eats."

"I eat," Grace argued.

"You eat enough not to die," Serra disagreed. "I need to eat more often than that!"

"Alright, enough," Tru commented, stopping the discussion before it escalated as it did so often between the Browning sisters. "We'll stop for gas soon anyway. I used what was left of the reserve tank."

"Oh thank _God,_ " Serra breathed. "We're getting more than friggin' beef jerky, too."

Tru answered with silence as they got off the highway, heading to the closest gas station that he could find. As he got out of the car to fill up both the regular gas tank and the reserve tank he had Bobby Singer install months ago, he sent the girls in with a twenty. Watching through the glass, he smiled to himself as he watched Serra try to fill the basket Grace carried with anything in reach.

Every few minutes, Grace would wait for Serra to turn away from her and then she would put something back. Finally, when Serra was satisfied that she had enough to sate her hunger, she and Grace headed towards the counter to pay for the food. He watched as Grace paid and smiled back when Serra waved through the window at him. She was still so young…both of them were, but Grace never ceased to amaze him when he needed her to rise to the occasion. This was one of those times. He knew his eldest daughter would have happily gone without eating to make sure that Serra had enough to fill her belly. With the purchase of Serra's new guns, they were down to their last hundred or so.

He would have to use Grace for a con again, and every time he did, he hated himself a little more for it.

The girls came out of the convenience store, carrying two bags of goodies, and Serra was all smiles as she approached the Chevelle. "We got peanut butter and banana chips…bread and chocolate…" she opened the bag and inspected the haul. "Hey, where's the Sour Patch Kids?"

Grace flicked her gaze towards Tru and licked her lips, quickly thinking of a lie. "They were expired, Sere," she answered, without missing a beat. "Rock hard and disgusting. You're not dropping two bucks on candy that you won't eat anyway."

Serra pouted long enough for Grace to roll her eyes. She held the front seat forward for her little sister and as she was about to climb in, Tru stopped her. "We're low on cash, kiddo," he whispered. "We're gonna have to run a con when we get up to Whitewater."

Staring at her father, Grace sighed slowly. "I take it you're telling me because I'm the con," she asked, deadpan. "I don't have my clothes."

Tru closed his eyes, sick to his stomach. "I have a pair of Daisy Dukes in the trunk," he whispered. "And we can get you a tank."

Grace looked away, staring at the gas pumps behind the car. "Gee," she sighed. "Thanks, Dad." Without another word, she pushed past him and sat down in her place in the passenger seat, handing Serra the rest of the snacks. "Here, Serra," she said, her voice void of emotion. "I don't need any of this, especially if I'm squeezing into last year's Dukes."

"What?" Serra asked, looking up from opening the bag of bread.

Grace glanced up through the window to stare at Tru. "Nothing," she replied. "Never mind."

…

The Brownings arrived in Whitewater, Montana the following day after a fitful sleep in a dingy motel in Rapid City, South Dakota. Grace had wasted no time that morning, waking her father and sister in order to get on the road early. She had already talked to Paul, the young hunter that was having so much trouble with the group of wraiths.

"Let me know when you get to town," Paul mentioned over the phone as Grace lugged her small back-up duffle into the motel they had discovered outside of town. It shared a parking lot with a trucker bar; the perfect place for Grace to run her con.

Grace sighed and shook her head. "We're already here," she said as she paced back to the Chevelle, seeing Serra still asleep in the back. "Pulled in about twenty minutes ago. We're low on cash, so we're gonna run a con first and meet up with you either late tonight or first thing in the morning." She glanced at her father, who nodded his approval. "Just sit tight and we'll take them together."

Paul sighed in relief. "I'm so glad you guys are here. We took on way too much on this hunt," he added.

"You didn't do the research, Paul," Grace chastised. "You went in without knowing everything you needed to know."

"Thanks for the reality check," he replied, cynicism dripping through his voice. "It's a good thing Grace Browning is here to rescue me."

"Damn straight it is," Grace responded.

There was a pause on Paul's end, but she could hear him smile, turning the call flirtatious in an instant. "You think you can sneak away?"

Grace's eyes flicked to her father, who was rousing Serra from her nap in the back. She turned away from Tru and lowered her voice. "I don't know, Paul. I thought that was a onetime thing?"

"One time is never enough with Grace Browning," he whispered. "Come on, Grace. I'll even buy you dinner. We could make it like a real date."

"You do realize I'm only seventeen."

Paul clicked his tongue. "Age is just a number, sweetheart. There's attraction, especially knowing you could probably kill me with your bare hands. It's kind of a turn on."

Grace sighed and stared at her boots. "I don't know," she answered, glancing back at Tru. "I'm on tonight and then we have wraiths to take care of, since the hunters that were here got caught holding their dicks."

"You know just what to say to make a guy feel manly."

"I'll call you after the con," Grace finally agreed. "See where we are."

Paul smiled into the phone again and released the breath he was holding. "Deal," he whispered. "I'll talk to you later."

"Try not to get yourself killed before that." Grace closed the phone, hanging up, and turned back to her family. Serra was stretching and smiling towards her, obviously eavesdropping on Grace's phone call.

"You're running a con tonight?" she asked, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

Nodding, Grace pocketed her phone. "We're low on cash because of your new guns," she answered without looking up at her sister. "The pair of engraved forty-fives that you just _had_ to have."

Serra furrowed her brows and let her mouth hang open in defense. "They were _destined_ to be my guns! You saw my dreams! They were _meant_ to be mine."

Grace opened her mouth to argue, but stopped short, pursing her lips. "Serra," she sighed. "Have you ever considered the idea that they could have been just _dreams_?"

Serra was immediately angry and stood, stomping her foot once to drive the point home. "They _aren't_ just dreams, Grace, and you know it. They were there. You were there. We were old!"

"That doesn't mean anything," Grace replied, closing her eyes and turning away from her sister.

Trying to step around her, Serra was bound to regain eye contact to prove her point. "What, just because I can't read someone's mind doesn't mean I can't have dreams?" Serra clicked her tongue, annoyed. "Don't worry, Gracie-poo," Serra continued, using her fingers as air quotes, "You're still the 'gifted' one."

"You think that's what I'm worried about?"

Serra glanced up and raised her eyebrows. "You're not?"

"This is exactly why you're too young for a gun." Grace rolled her eyes and bent to Serra's eye level. "What other dreams have you had about them?"

"It was really only the one dream," Serra started quietly. "It's like I showed you at the pawn. I saw us as adults, muddy and bloody. We were fighting for our lives and I had my guns. It was just a snippet, but we were old. Like, thirty." She paused and closed her eyes. "I think you were pregnant."

Grace was silent as she reached her hand out to her sister's forehead to see the dream once more. Closing her eyes, she made contact with her skin and watched the thoughts and memories from Serra's mind flash across her own. As the series ended, Grace opened her blue eyes and stared into her sister's dark hazel set. "I've had the same dream, I think, just from my perspective. It's almost as if we're sharing it."

"Do you know what it means?"

"It means you were meant to be with those guns."

Serra's face lit up with a grin and Grace returned a gentle smile. With a turn on the toe of her boot, Serra headed towards Tru through the open motel room door. He ruffled her hair as she walked by and glanced up towards Grace, furrowing his eyebrows towards her. Grace shook him off quickly, knowing that she would have to get her game face on for the con they were about to run. She didn't have the time or the energy to get into a discussion about the dreams with Tru.

She had work to do.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

It was still early in the evening for the trucker bar to have any patrons, but Grace walked in anyway, holding her head high and throwing her long, flowing, wavy blonde hair behind her. It was down and teased, hair sprayed to stay out of her face, but still be inviting. She was wearing a skin-tight, black, low cut tank top, showing off more-than-was-necessary cleavage from the push-up bra that she pulled from her luggage earlier that afternoon. Grace had taken the time to line her blue eyes with heavy black eyeliner, curving it with the angle of her face, creating the perfect, sultry cat-eye. She donned dark red lipstick and just enough perfume to be noticed.

She walked with purpose towards the bartender as he wiped out glasses. He blinked once at her approaching and had to catch the glass that almost slipped from his fingers in surprise.

"Hi," she greeted, her voice low and inviting. "How's it going?"

The bartender watched her approach, the curve of her hips accented by the setting sun behind her. The Daisy Duke shorts allowed little for the imagination and he struggled to find the words to answer her.

"Uh," he began. "Yeah. Hi."

Grace reached the bar and leaned on her elbows, presenting her cleavage without shame towards the bartender. "I have a little proposition for you, sir," she began, allowing her hair to fall forward slightly, hiding one of her heavy-lidded eyes.

"A…a proposition?" he asked, setting the glass on the bar and leaning towards her, almost out of necessity.

She lifted her eyebrows and nodded, smiling mischievously. "Yeah," she agreed, stretching towards him and taking a deep breath. "I need to make some money tonight."

"What does that have to do with me?"

"It has everything to do with you," Grace answered. When she was sure she had his attention, she continued. "I'm going to get a lot of men to buy me drinks… to get me good and…" she paused and raised her fingers into air quotes, "drunk." The bartender narrowed his eyes, realizing that prostitution was not in the cards.

"Again, what does that have to do with me?" he asked, backing up slightly.

Grace licked her lips and tilted her head. "Every time a man buys me a drink or a shot or whatever, I want you pouring water or juice or whatever matches the drink he buys me, but set aside the cash that he pays so that I can take it home with me instead."

The bartender narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "And what's in it for me?" he asked, standing up to his full height.

Grace didn't hesitate. "Ten percent of my take."

The bartender pursed his lips. "How old are you?"

Taking a deep breath, Grace smiled seductively, using her body to drive the point home as she leaned forward and winked. "How old do you think I am?" she asked, tilting her head.

"Old enough to know what you're doing," he replied, shaking himself out of his trance. "I take it you've run this before?"

She licked her lips, lifting her eyebrows and nodding once.

"Ten percent," he repeated.

More nodding.

"Alright," he sighed, extending his hand. "You've got yourself a deal."

Grace hesitated on taking his hand, staring at it for half a beat. "I don't shake hands," she said, smiling apologetically. "Sorry."

The bartender looked rejected, but tilted his head and shrugged. "Well," he said as he continued wiping the glasses. He nodded towards the door that had just opened, letting in the last of the evening light. "Looks like we've got your first customer."

A large, broad shouldered trucker walked into the bar, taking off his sunglasses and setting them on the brim on his hat. He immediately glanced towards Grace, scoping out her ass, just enough showing from the bottom of her Daisy Dukes as she leaned on the bar. He was in his late twenties, tall and muscled, not looking like the typical trucker that Grace preyed on. If this wasn't a night for a con, Grace would have considered taking him home.

She turned slowly on the heel of her cowboy boot and leaned back on her elbows, pushing her hips towards him as she tilted her body. She threw him a sultry grin and winked at him, sealing the deal on her pull.

In any other world, Grace Browning would have been too young to know how to manipulate men for money, using her body, but this was just another Saturday night in this female hunter's world. There were times that Grace wished for nothing more than the simple life…one that she could be home studying for her algebra test instead of using her breasts and hips as a lure for men.

Grace developed much earlier than her peers, hitting puberty hard around eleven years old. As she matured, Grace continued to grow leaner and more muscular, but keeping her feminine curves men seemed to value so highly. Her coveted hips and breasts stood out to the point of whispered discussion around other females her age, whether it was from jealousy or discrimination, Grace would never know. She hadn't cared enough to find out. She was a loner, knowing too much about the real world to be a part of the in-crowd, but had already experienced more than her fair share of boyfriends. Grace was desirable and she knew it, using it to her benefit in any way she could, especially when it came to survival.

The young trucker approached, taking off his hat and attempting to lay it on the bar beside Grace. His sunglasses skidded off and fell to the floor, popping out one of the lenses. His handsome face flushed in embarrassment, but Grace ignored it, focusing only on his face and getting the illusion of seduction started.

"Hey, there, handsome," she smiled, letting her eyelids fall lower, "aren't you a pretty thing?"

The trucker grinned stupidly at her and nodded, "I was gonna say the same thing about you." He moved closer and Grace took a deep breath, preparing herself for the inevitable physical contact. "You are the prettiest thing I've ever seen in here."

Grace looked down, playing the part. "You're too sweet," she answered, reaching out to touch his arm. She froze long enough to allow his memories and thoughts to run through his head. After the three seconds had passed, she flicked her blue eyes towards her target and smiled lightly.

He was married.

The biggest reason Truman Browning felt comfortable enough to send his daughter into the clutches of other men was that she could easily read their intentions, simply by touching them. She never took on a mark that was vindictive or violent, always evaluating their personalities through their memories before she continued.

Grace leaned away from the trucker and smiled sweetly, knowing what angle she had to pursue in order to get the most return on her effort. "From the sound of things, you're here a lot, then," Grace commented, tilting her head. The bartender had moved away from the couple, allowing Grace to work her magic.

"That's an old line," the trucker commented. "You come here often?"

Grace shrugged, "Well, why do you think it works so well?"

He grinned at her and extended his hand. "Ethan Dyer," he said, introducing himself.

"Daisy," Grace answered, taking his hand and shaking it. "It's nice to meet such a nice guy."

Ethan smiled and nodded to the bartender. "Let's get Daisy a drink, huh?"

…

Darkness fell around the bar quickly. More and more truckers came into the bar and joined the party that had gathered around Grace. They continued buying her drinks as she wrapped her arms around them, joking with them and making sure that they were having a good time. Grace played her part easily, smiling and laughing with the men around her, acting just drunk enough to be putty in their hands as they passed her around.

"Hey boys," she slurred, eyeing the pool table. "I'll bet I could shoot any of you under the table." She lifted her finger to point.

"Oh, sure, Daisy," Ethan muttered, his hat shifted to one side haphazardly. He was trashed. "Just like you said you could drink us under the table?"

Grace turned as she leaned against the bar, holding herself up on the shoulder of another trucker whose name she hadn't bothered to remember. "I'm still standing, ain't I?"Grace smiled as the other, nameless trucker let her go so she could attempt to stand on her own. Grace pretended to falter a bit, tripping over her own cowboy boots, but caught herself and adjusted her shirt, pulling it down a bit further. "See? I got it. Someone buy me another drink and then come lose to me at pool!"

Three men came forward, one of them already bringing out a twenty dollar bill. He slapped it onto the bar and the bartender filled a glass with rum and coke, but turned to Grace, sliding another glass of clear liquid on the rocks towards her. The man at the bar picked up the glass and as he handed it to Grace, she glanced up and completely ignored the fact that it was her father. "Thank you, good sir. Are you going to lose to me at pool, too?"

Tru smiled, "I wouldn't put it that way."

Grace turned to the crowd. "You hear that, boys? We got ourselves a taker! Thinks he can beat me!" She downed the glass of clear liquid, licking the drip from the side. The water cooled her throat after talking so much to the men around her, but she sauntered over to the pool cues and sat on the edge of the table, crossing her legs. "Who's got twenty on me?" A couple of the men came forward, slamming down a twenty or two next to Grace's exposed hip. She smiled at the cash that piled up and turned to Tru. "Well, old man?" she asked, "You ready?"

"No one bet on me!" he argued. "And I'll bet there's a few boys out there that wanna take you on, little girl."

"Alright, boys," she grinned. "Who's playing? Let's get a pool going so I know who I'm goin' home with." Grace couldn't help but glance at Tru as the same disgust with herself came to the surface, but he was already staring at the pool table, trying to ignore his own feelings of guilt that welled up in his chest. Every time he saw her in action, it was hard to believe that she was his seventeen-year-old daughter.

Men stepped forward, eager to interact with Grace. Soon enough, there was a whiskey glass stuffed full of twenties and one by one, men stepped forward to play pool.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Little by little, a crowd had gathered around the pool table; truckers trying to get close enough to catch a glimpse of Grace bending over to take a shot and slowly, the other men in the game scratched or missed their shot, dropping out of the game. The drinks continued to flow and Grace continued to pretend to keep up.

After about an hour and a half, Grace glanced around and noticed that there were only three people left playing; Ethan, the first trucker she met, her father, and herself. No matter the way the game ended up, The Brownings would undoubtedly end up on top at the end of the night.

Turning towards Tru, Grace pretended to take another shot of whiskey and licked her glass clean, setting it upside down on top of the bar. She winked at the bartender, grateful that he had held up his end of the bargain and he smiled in return. Licking her lips, she turned away; glad that she wouldn't have to drink apple juice for quite awhile after tonight.

"You're up, Daisy Mae," Ethan slurred, leaning on his pool cue. "Last shot. Make it or one of us wins," he said, gesturing to Tru and himself.

Grace smiled, tilting her head, allowing her hair to drape across her chest. She lowered her pool cue, already knowing that there was no chance of making the pool ball ricochet where she wanted it to go. She was good, but she wasn't that good. Glancing at her father's remaining pool ball, she noticed that he had a good chance of winning, but at the same time, Ethan had a fair chance as well. Bottom line, Grace would have to continue to work Ethan, just to make sure she ended up with most of the cash.

Grace pushed the pool cue through her other hand and held her breath as her pool ball rolled across the table, pushing Tru's ball into position. From behind Ethan, Tru smiled, glancing at the floor to hide his expression towards his daughter's ingenuity.

"Ah, shit," Grace muttered, knowing she had just lost the game. She glanced up at Tru and took a deep breath as she threw herself over Ethan. "You'll take care of me tonight," she mumbled into his ear after her initial three seconds of memories had passed. "Since apparently, I suck at pool."

Ethan turned towards Grace and kissed her, holding her by the back of the head and wrapping his arms around her shoulders. She reciprocated immediately, pressing her body into his as Tru tried to ignore them and take his shot.

The other men looked on as Ethan and Grace wrapped their arms around each other and a couple even shouted out whoops of appreciation, only slightly jealous. They were just happy that one of their own had scored the chick.

As they broke apart, they both turned to watch Tru's remaining pool ball roll across the green felt and sink into the pocket in the corner. "Shit," Ethan said, shaking his head. "That old man's got game."

"Yeah, well," Grace breathed, "you got the girl."

Tru walked towards the empty whiskey glass that was stuffed to the brim with twenties. He pulled out the cash and rolled it together, guessing there had to be at least four hundred in his pocket alone. Grace glanced at him as he walked by, communicating wordlessly. Their con was coming to a close.

"Oh, man," Grace whispered, putting a hand to her mouth. "I don't think I shoulda mixed the booze."

"Are you okay?" Ethan asked, leaning towards her.

Grace held her hand to her mouth and shook her head. "I'll be right back," she whispered, running out of the main room and heading towards the bathroom hallway. On her way, she caught the bartender's eye and nodded. He caught her hint immediately and grabbed the stack of cash that sat behind the cash register. Licking his thumb and his finger, he began to count.

Minutes later, Grace emerged out of the bathroom, looking sick. Her hair was matted to her face and her eye make-up was smeared across her cheeks. She glanced at the bartender who nodded at a rubber-banded roll of cash, sitting next to the whiskey bottle on the back shelf. Staring out into the bar, Grace made sure that no one saw her take the roll of cash and stuff it into her bra. Nodding her appreciation at the bartender, he winked back at her, stuffing his take into his jeans pocket.

Immediately back into character, Grace used the bar to guide her way back out into the main area, still covering her mouth with the back of her hand.

Ethan greeted her first. "Oh, man," he said, seeing her hobble towards him. "Daisy, baby, are you okay?"

Grace shook her head. "Call me a cab, will you?"

He pulled out his phone and dialed a number, listening. He ordered the cab and hung up the phone, looking defeated. "Can I call you?"

Grace stared up into his sad, brown eyes and she smiled weakly. "Sure, hon," she said, "I travel around a lot. You never know."

A cab pulled up minutes later and Ethan poured Grace into the back seat. As soon as he closed the door, he waved and Grace smiled weakly back at him. Not looking up at the driver, she said, "The McDonald's on Railroad and First, please."

The cab driver nodded, looking into his rearview mirror. "You're lucky I was out this far. Normally, there're no cabs for a hundred miles. A guy called me an hour and a half ago, and then cancelled me. I was on my way home, out fifty bucks!"

The corner of Grace's lips turned up into a smile. "Luck has nothing to do with it," she commented, sighing contentedly, staring out the window. "It's just good planning."


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

By the time Tru had come to the McDonald's at the edge of town to pick Grace up, it was almost one in the morning. They drove back to the motel in silence and Grace leaned her head on the glass, looking out into the dark forest as the trees flew by.

"That was some good work," Tru finally commented as they pulled into the parking spot outside of their room.

Grace got out and stood next to the Chevelle silently and folded her arms across her chest, hiding the cleavage that poured from her skin-tight tank top. Her expression was blank as she stared at her father from over the roof of the car.

Tru licked his lips and shrugged. "I pulled four-sixty off the pool table. How much did you get?"

Reaching into her bra, Grace tugged out the roll of cash and tossed it towards her father. He caught it, midair, and still without a word, she turned back to the door of the motel and let herself in.

Serra was still awake and smiled, rolling towards Grace when she walked across the carpet. "How'd it go?" she asked, watching her big sister rifle through her duffle bag and pull out a pair of sweats and a Metallica shirt.

Grace stared at Serra and remained silent, breathing slowly through her nose. She wrenched off her cowboy boots and left them standing next to Serra's bed and walked into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.

When Tru walked in, he closed the door behind him and set the newly aquired cash, his keys, and his wallet on the table next to his bed. He smiled sadly at Serra and collapsed on the bed behind him, staring at the ceiling.

"Did it go bad?" Serra asked, turning towards Tru.

Truman sighed heavily as he heard Grace turn on the water for a shower. "No, Lucky," he answered, rubbing his face. "It went well. It went almost too well."

"Then what is her problem?" Serra asked, genuinely confused as she gestured towards the bathroom door. "She didn't even answer me."

Sitting up slowly, Tru closed his eyes. "You'll understand a bit more when you're older, kiddo. Right now, Grace just needs to be alone and deal with being who she is." He rubbed his face again and spoke from behind his hands. "Your sister is a very talented creature and I'm not really sure how we would do any of this without her abilities."

Serra licked her lips and nodded. "So I should lay off?"

"A bit, yeah," Tru agreed. "But not so much to make her suspicious."

Giggling, Serra nodded. "Deal."

…

Grace was still moody the next morning, tugging on a new, nicely-fitting tank top, her normal jeans, and boots. As she bent to lace them up, Serra stirred, turning over to stare at her sister. "Morning, Big," she greeted sleepily.

"Hey, Little," Grace answered, trying to keep the smile out of her voice.

Serra pushed the covers off of her legs and sat up, rubbing her face. "Are we going to meet up with Paul today?"

Grace nodded, still not turning towards her. "Yeah, a little later," she answered. "You and Dad are going to the Ranger Station and feel things out. I'm going to see Paul and find out whatever he knows about the wraiths already."

Dangling her bare feet off the edge of the bed, Serra sat quietly next to Grace. Finally, she turned to face her little sister and lifted her eyebrows, questioning. "Why are you so quiet? It's making me nervous."

Serra grinned. "I like to keep you on your toes. Never know what I'm gonna do."

"I always know what you're gonna do," Grace replied. "For example," she continued, standing up from the bed to pull on a jacket. "Right now, you're searching for a way to ask what I do during a con."

Narrowing her hazel eyes, Serra tried to think of a way to argue with her sister. "No," was all she could think to say. Grace smiled and shook her head. To Grace's smile, Serra asked, "What?"

"I'm going to force you to hold onto your innocence as long as humanly possible. You may have won the fight about having a gun—"

"Guns."

"Guns," Grace repeated, rolling her eyes, "but you'll lose the war. I'm keeping you eleven. You don't get to be older than that."

The water shut off in the bathroom as Tru wrapped up his morning shower. The girls could hear him humming to himself from behind the closed door as he toweled off and got dressed. When the door opened, he was still drying his hair, but he was fully dressed with bare feet. He grinned at his daughters and walked across the room, tossing a package of chocolate frosted donuts at Serendipity.

"Morning, Luck," he said, smiling.

Beaming, Serra opened the package of donuts and held one out to her sister. Grace half-smiled and took it, taking a deep breath before taking a bite. It was delicious and Grace couldn't help closing her eyes to enjoy it.

"When's the last time you ate?" Serra asked, watching her sister eat the small donut.

Grace shrugged as she shoved the rest of it into her mouth. "I don't know," she mumbled over the crumbs. "Sometime yesterday."

The truth was Grace Browning hadn't eaten in two days or so, knowing how short they were on cash. She had made it through the last twenty-four hours on apple juice and water from the bar, understanding that it was a means to an end.

Serra handed her another donut and Grace smiled, taking it, and turned to dig through her duffle. "My turn for a shower," she said. Grace and Tru nodded. "Then I want to load my guns."

Sighing, Grace glanced at Tru, pressing her lips together as she held in the myriad of thoughts that sailed through her mind. This was not the time or the place to start another fight about the weapons. What was done was done.

As soon as the sound of the old pipes began pumping water from behind the closed bathroom door and they heard the curtain pull closed in the bathroom, Tru turned to Grace and asked, "Why haven't you eaten?"

Grace clicked her tongue. "She needs to eat more often than me," she answered, avoiding her father's gaze. "There's no reason that I need to waste food."

Truman shook his head, his eyebrows furrowed, "Eating because you're starving is not wasting food. Em's gonna call Social Services on me, she hears about that."

Shrugging, Grace turned away from her father and dumped her remaining ammunition on the bed. Changing subject completely, she commented, "I'm out of silver."

"I bought a couple of boxes from Billy," Tru answered. "Take a box for The Judge and give your sister a clip."

Turning slowly, Grace put her hands on her hips and stared at him. "You're giving Serra silver? Does that mean you're gonna let her hunt the wraith?"

"I think it's time we hunt her."

"She is eleven-fucking-years-old, Dad."

Tru nodded. "Yeah," he replied. "You keep reminding me."

"If she gets killed out there," Grace whispered, "that's on you." With that, Grace picked up a box of silver rounds for her own pearl-handled Colt forty-five and strode out of the room, slinging her bag over her shoulder and pocketing her phone.

Tru sighed heavily as he closed his eyes and listened to the door slam behind her. He knew she would have to blow off some steam and then, eventually, she would come back to him.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

"Aren't you a sight for sore eyes?" Paul greeted Grace as he pulled open his motel door. "How'd you know I was here?"

"The guy at the front counter was very helpful," she replied, brushing past him and making herself feel at home. She turned and smiled at Paul, who was shirtless, having just gotten out of the shower. His hair dripped water down his scarred, muscled back and Grace couldn't help but stand back to appreciate him. "You look good like that," she mentioned quietly. "You should probably make it a habit."

Paul chuckled and glanced down at himself. "Talk like that," he said, smiling and taking a step closer to Grace, "is what gets us into trouble."

Grace shrugged and dropped her bag on the chair next to her. "Yeah, well," she sighed. "I'm starting to think it's worth it."

Paul was on her in a heartbeat, wrapping his arms around her waist and lifting her up as he kissed her fiercely. She reciprocated as soon as her visions passed and coiled her arms around his shoulders, running her hands through his wet hair, scattering drips of water everywhere.

"One of these days, you'll be legal, right?" Paul panted into her hair.

Grace stared at the ceiling with blank eyes as Paul attacked her neck and pulled at her blonde waves. "Yeah," she whispered, finally letting her eyes close. "One of these days."

…

"Keep your cool," Tru was saying to Serra as they approached the Ranger Station. "You are doing a school report on animals in the surrounding forests and you need as many details as you can get."

Serra nodded, flipping her hair behind her as she adjusted the elementary school mascot hooded sweatshirt she wore. "I look ridiculous," she muttered.

"You look like a fifth grader," Tru repeated for the fourth time that morning. "Play the part. This is why we don't take you with us on recon." He stared at her as he rested his hand on the glass door's handle. "Stop twitching."

"I'm all worked up!" Serra answered, shaking her hands. "Grace hasn't prepped me for this."

"I've been prepping you all morning," Tru replied. "She doesn't need to be the only one who does that."

"She's the only one who's any good at it," she muttered under her breath. "Where did you send her?"

Tru opened the glass door to the Ranger Station and allowed his youngest daughter to saunter inside ahead of him. "I sent her to recon the last known area where Paul spotted the wraith," Tru lied, staring ahead at his destination. There was a ranger standing behind a podium, checking items off on a clipboard. "Ready?" he whispered.

"Yeah, sure," Serra answered, pulling on her sweatshirt once more. "Let's get this over with."

…

Sitting up in bed, Grace pulled her hair into a ponytail and shook her head, staring at the floor. "You leaving so soon?" Paul's voice carried softly over the pillows. "Figured since you got here by yourself, you'd be fixing to stay a bit."

"We're here to help you with the wraith," Grace replied, reaching for the tank top Paul had tossed off to the side of the bed earlier. "We're not staying."

Paul sat up next to Grace, running a hand through his wavy brown hair. "You keep saying 'we'," he commented quietly. "But you're here by yourself, honey."

Turning back towards the man next to her, Grace took a deep breath. "I shouldn't be," she whispered. Standing, she tugged on her jeans and walked silently towards the bathroom and closed the door behind her.

"You know," Paul began, gathering his clothes. "You show up here, all raring to go, and every time we do this, you end up sulky and pissed and I can't figure it out." He shook his head and rolled his eyes towards the closed bathroom door. "I'm starting to get the feeling that you're just using me, Grace Browning."

Grace laughed mirthlessly. "What if that's the case?" her voice came from behind the closed bathroom door.

Paul laughed to himself, amused. "If that's the case, I gotta say," he turned towards the door. "Turns me on a bit."

Opening the door and shaking her head, Grace breezed past Paul and headed towards her leather bag, slung over the chair near the desk. "Tuck it back in, there," she answered quietly. "We should probably figure out your wraith problem so that I can get back to my algebra test."

He stared at her from his place in bed, still shirtless with his hair tousled about. "You're still on about getting out of the game, huh?"

Pressing her lips together as she pulled out her hunt journal, Grace nodded. "Yeah, but I don't know how well that's gonna go. Serra just got a set of forty-fives." Paul's silence was surprising. She glanced up at the expression on his face and raised her eyebrows. "Yeah," she sighed. "Don't get me started."

"She's only, what, ten?"

"Eleven."

Paul rolled his eyes. "Like that's any better," he said, shaking his head. "Man, what is Tru thinking?"

Grace sighed again and sat in the chair behind her. "I'm glad to see we're on the same page. Maybe there's hope for a relationship after all."

A wry grin spread across Paul's handsome face and he tilted his head in response. "I told you I'd wear you down eventually."

"Don't count your chickens," Grace muttered, pulling out the stack of newspaper articles that Paul had collected. She pointed to the map, "You said there was one you were tracking?" He nodded, walking towards the wall. "Where?"

"As far south as Saco," he answered. "But the last kill it made was here in Whitewater. That's why I thought there was only one. Now, more kills are showing up all the way in Turner, almost the same twenty-four hour period. That's too far for one to get on foot."

Grace shrugged noncommittally. "Maybe," she said, staring at the map on the wall. "If it's a family group, you would think they'd stay together."

"Maybe it's a pair?"

"With the split, though, we're gonna have to track both of them. Any more kills that you know of?"

Paul traced his finger along the highway and tapped twice. "Here, in Malta," he said, running a hand through his hair again. "There's a wildlife preserve right near there. I'm thinking that's their home base."

Grace pursed her lips and tugged at her ponytail, lost in thought. "We get tagged for killing something inside the preserve, it's a federal offense," she commented quietly. She glanced over her shoulder towards Paul.

He shrugged. "So we don't get caught," he smiled roguishly. "Don't give me that look," Paul continued. "You love me."

Grace chuckled and shook her head. "I think that might be the other way around."


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

"Hey, man," Paul greeted as he approached Truman, holding out his arms for a hug. "How the hell are you?"

Tru regarded the younger carefully, narrowing his eyes and tilting his head as he saw his eldest daughter step into his line of sight. Slowly, Tru accepted the embrace, leaning towards Paul and patting him on the shoulder. "Doing alright, kid," he answered. "How about yourself?"

He silently watched the interaction between Paul and Grace and took a deep breath, trying to push the anger that bubbled from his chest from his mind. Grace was Grace and there was no stopping her, especially when she was mature enough to run cons like the one she had pulled the night before. He should have guessed that Grace would have run straight to Paul Caruso.

Paul grinned, "I'm great, Tru. Really great." He took a deep breath and adjusted the Dickies jacket he wore. "That wraith put me on my ass, though. I'm glad you guys are here."

Serra smiled at the outpouring of gratitude from Paul. She had always favored him when it came to men that Grace had dated, even though that was never what she called it. "Hey, Paul," she said, making sure she was part of the conversation.

"Hey, Lady Luck," Paul smiled. "Heard you got yourself a pair of forty-fives. How'd you handle the kick on them?"

"It's not so bad," Serra answered, her face flushing with excitement. "Wanna see?"

"Uh," Paul grinned, "yeah. For sure."

Serra led Paul back towards the Chevelle as Tru closed the gap between his eldest daughter and himself. He took a deep breath and demanded, "Where have you been?"

Grace didn't look at him. "With Paul," she whispered. "We were talking about the wraiths."

"Don't lie to me, Grace."

"I'm not lying to you," she argued, finally making eye contact. "He thinks they're on the preserve. The kills are too wide-spread to be one and if we get caught hunting something on the wild lands, we're gonna get arrested."

Truman ignored the outpouring of information from his daughter and pointed over his shoulder towards Paul. "He is twenty-two years old, Grace," he leaned closer to make sure he was driving the point home. "You are seventeen."

Grace locked her jaw and stared up at her father. "And what do ages matter to you? You bought my eleven-year-old sister two Colt forty-fives." She sighed and shook her head. "Plus, you and mom got started when you were fifteen. I don't want to hear it."

"I ended up marrying your mother," Tru whispered. "Are you telling me that you and Paul are serious? Because to me, it looks like you're screwing to piss me off."

"You know, Dad," Grace said, taking a deep breath and crossing her arms. "That's it exactly. You nailed it. I love going off to fuck Paul, just to piss you off." She lifted her eyebrows challengingly. "And you know what? It feels pretty good, too."

Grace stormed away from her father and headed towards her sister and Paul as they examined the twin Colts. "Gracie, look," Serra said, pointing to the box that Paul held. "Dad gave me a box of silver."

"Awesome," Grace commented sarcastically, shaking her head. "You wanna do some target practice while the men-folk go over the hunt?"

Serra heard the distain drip through the tone of Grace's voice and she eyed her father's reaction. He seemed to ignore her, but the tension did not go unnoticed by the younger. Paul glanced at Grace over the barrel of the gun he held and sighed softly. "Alright," he began. "Try to stay out of trouble."

Serendipity didn't understand the underlying meaning behind Paul's words, but Grace seemed to. She smiled and her face flushed red slightly, lowering her blue eyes to stare at the gun in her hands. Tru and Paul walked towards Paul's truck and drove away, leaving Serra and Grace alone next to the Chevelle in the giant field.

Without hesitating, Grace turned back towards her sister and lifted her eyebrows, tilting her head as she asked, "How did your investigation at the ranger station go?"

Serra shrugged. "I don't know. I was awkward. Dad made me wear a hoodie," she explained, loading a clip into one of the twins. "We didn't find out anything we didn't already know, though. Ranger said there have been three kills in the last week or so, just like Paul said."

Nodding, Grace handed Serra the other gun. She loaded it like a pro, sliding the clip into place and clicking off the safety. Taking a deep breath, Grace nodded towards the stump in the middle of the field, about twenty-five yards from where they stood.

"I know you've shot The Judge before," Grace began, taking a deep breath as Serra listened. "But shooting that and shooting two at once is completely different. The kick could really throw you on your ass, and if it's during hand to hand, who knows where your aim will end up if you're not ready for it." Serra was nodding, extending her arm as she closed her left eye. Grace glanced at her, watching carefully. "I know your impulse is to close an eye," she continued, pressing Serra's extended arms lower. "But when you're firing both at once, you don't want to have your vision altered in any way. You don't want to miss anything on the peripheral."

Serra opened her left eye once more and flicked her gaze towards her sister's expression. Nodding her approval, Grace stepped behind her, continuing quietly, "When you fire, breathe out so your whole body relaxes. Stay loose and bend your knees." She glanced at her sister and nodded, "If you don't hit the stump the first time, make the adjustment and try again. Don't get frustrated."

Taking a slow and steady breath, Serra tilted her head and locked her jaw. She exhaled and squeezed the trigger on both guns at once. Grace winced on the sound of the shots and closed her eyes long enough to catch Serra righting her stance ever so slightly on the kick from the weapons. She was grinning.

"You hit the stump," Grace said, deadpan.

Serra clicked her tongue and glanced up at her sister; annoyed. "Of course I hit the stump. I'm a better shot than you."

"Modest, too," Grace muttered, shaking her head as they began the trek towards the target. As she approached, Grace could see two splits in the wood from where Serra's forty-five caliber bullets had pieced the stump. They were basically stacked on top of each other.

Pulling her four-inch switchblade from her pocket, Grace flicked it open with her thumb and dug out the spent bullets. She expected to catch each one separately, but they popped out as one, fused together. Staring sidelong at her baby sister, Grace let her mouth fall open slightly. The corner of Serra's mouth tucked into a wry grin and she laughed towards her sister.

"I told you," she whispered. "They were meant to be mine."

"There is no way in hell that you can do that again."

Serra pressed her lips together determinedly. "Watch me," she replied.

…

Three hours and one hundred, sixteen bullets later, Grace sighed as Serra dropped her fourth set of fused bullets into her palm. "There's number four," Serra mocked. "I think you're up to about eighty bucks."

"I won't charge you for all the ammo you spent today and we'll call it even," Grace answered, pulling her phone out of her pocket to check the time. "We've been out here since nine and we haven't heard anything from Dad or Paul," she commented, glancing at her sister. "That's weird, right?"

"What time is it?"

"A little after twelve."

Serra made a face as she shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know. Maybe Dad is still burying Paul," she replied. "He looked pretty peeved when he left."

Grace rolled her eyes as she walked towards the Chevelle. "Go pick up the shells," she commanded, pointing to the ground where empties littered the dirt. "We'll try and reload most of them."

"What are you going to do?"

Sighing as she flipped through her contact, she glanced over at Serra. "I'm gonna try and call Dad."


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Somewhere off in the distance, Truman could hear a phone ringing. His vision was clouded and he tried to focus on the sound as he pushed himself up on his elbow. Blood dripped from his forehead and nose as he shifted his position and he winced in pain. "Shit," he muttered, reaching for his face. Bruises and welts were beginning to surface across his cheeks and there was a slight ringing in his ears that wasn't coming from the phone.

He sat up, still holding his head and glanced around. It was obvious that he was underground. There was a rhythmic drip from somewhere behind him and the air had a musty chill to it. Tru took a deep breath, wheezing slightly in pain.

The phone stopped ringing and the silence once again surrounded him as he attempted to stand. Using the rock wall to steady his footing, Truman began the trek to his cell phone, thrown to the side of the basement during the struggle with one of the wraiths.

Flashes of the attack began to come back and Tru shook his head at his own stupidity. Paul had convinced him to investigate on their own, saying that it wouldn't be dangerous and that they would do a little recon before bringing the girls back tonight to hunt the wraiths. Unfortunately, one of the monsters had gotten the drop on them, attacking from behind as he and Paul had walked back to the truck.

"Paul?" Tru ventured as he moved silently towards the phone on the ground. "Hey, kid?"

There was no answer. Paul was either unconscious in the darkness beyond Tru's vision or he was alone in the basement. As he approached the phone, it began to ring again. He glanced around and flipped it open, answering in a whisper, "Grace?"

"Why are you whispering?" came her immediate reply.

Truman turned to put his back towards the wall as he took a deep breath. "One of them got the drop on us," he explained, looking around the room for a weapon. "I'm in a basement or something…underground. There's a tiny window facing west. I can see the sun." Knowing that his daughter was already throwing herself into action, he tried to slow her down. "Now, Gracie, wait," he continued. "I have no idea where I am, so just hang tight a minute while I get my bearings."

"I'm going to trace your GPS," Grace replied. Tru heard the Chevelle's motor turn over; the rumble of the engine echoed through the tiny speaker of his cell phone. Static scratched through his ear as Grace shifted the phone on her shoulder. "Serra, let's go. Just leave it," she said, obviously addressing her sister as she prepared to come after their father.

"You know how to do that?" Truman asked, tilting his head. He picked up a screwdriver that lay haphazardly on the workbench he leaned on. "The GPS thing?"

"I'll figure it out. Keep your phone on and stand next to the window." With that, Grace hung up and Tru was once again left alone in the room.

He made his way around the outside, holding his hand steady on the rock wall that surrounded him. The heavy wooden storm door was obviously locked from the outside, and even if he found something to stand on in order to climb out the window, he was convinced that he wouldn't fit through it.

"Where is Luck when you need her?" he muttered to himself, knowing his youngest daughter would fit easily through the window. Tru shook his head and dabbed the blood with his shirt and again turned to face the almost-empty basement.

He sighed heavily as he opened the flip phone once more. He had about twenty percent of his battery life and Grace would kill him if it died while she was looking for him, so he shook his head and closed it once more, changing his mind about attempting to call Paul. Grace, he knew, would take care of things.

She always did.

…

"Come on," Grace muttered, holding the phone against her shoulder as she tore down the highway, kicking up leaves and dust in her path.

The other end rang a final time and Paul's voice answered, "Hey, this is Paul. I'm busy. Call back later."

Grace slammed her hand on the steering wheel as she drove and she chanced a glance at her sister. "It's okay, Serra," she said, keeping her tone even. "Dad answered. We can get to Dad."

"What about Paul?" Serra asked. Her voice was laced with concern, sounding younger than she had in years.

"We'll GPS him too, but we need to concentrate on Dad. As soon as the phone company calls me back, we'll head there and get him," Grace explained, staring at the road and gripping the wheel. "From there, we can worry about Paul."

Serra stared out the windshield. "Where are we going?"

"Paul was staying at a little motel just outside the nature preserve where he thought the wraiths were living. There's a nice little ranger station with an observation tower and tours that lead through the forest." She gasped slightly as she took the turn a little too fast. "There was also housing for the rangers on the back half of the preserve. I'll bet you ten bucks, that's where the wraith took Dad."

"How do you know?"

"A hunch."

Eyeing her sister silently, Serendipity was constantly impressed by her big sister. Grace had the ability to just _know_ things that no one else really seemed to know. She guessed correctly more often than not when it came to making split second decisions and her "hunches" were almost always spot on.

Grace's cell phone began to ring and she reached for it immediately, answering it on the second ring. "Hello?" she asked, keeping her voice upbeat and professional. It was the voice she had learned to adopt when dealing with adults, needing to sound older than she was.

"Mrs. Browning? We have your daughter's cell phone tracking," a woman answered, getting right down to business.

Grace breathed a sigh of relief more dramatically than she needed to. "Oh, thank God," she cried. "I just hate when she takes off like this. It's been so hard since her father left us."

"I'm sorry to hear that, ma'am," the operator answered. "The phone is triangulated roughly where Bowdoin Road and a set of railroad tracks intersect at the outer edge of the Bowdoin Refuge. I apologize for not being able to be more specific, but there are no cross streets to work off of."

Grace nodded, confirming her suspicions. She glanced at Serra and pressed her lips together. "Thank you so much," she added, making sure to sound grateful.

"You're very welcome, ma'am. We are grateful for your subscription. Please call back with any more questions."

Hanging up before she had a chance to blow the phone call completely, Grace pushed the Chevelle to its limits. "They're on the outer edge of the reserve. I knew it."

"How far?"

"Forty minutes if I push it."

Serra stared out the windshield again, fear gripping her body. "Push it, Grace," she gasped.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

Paul opened his eyes and slowly, the dim room came into focus. His wrists were tied to the arms of a wooden chair in the middle of a rather plush living room. There were ornate rugs and framed paintings of outdoor life hanging on the walls. Heavy velvet curtains kept the afternoon light at bay, and as he struggled against his bindings, he tried to hold the surge of panic welling in his chest.

Grace Browning had probably been right about him from the first time they met; he wasn't a hunter. When their relationship was new, he had been fresh-faced in this way of life; having watched his sister and girlfriend being drained of life as he watched a vampire feed on them only months before. He had convinced himself that because he had nothing left, he could deal with his tragic life by trying to kill what had killed them.

The problem had been pretty obvious from the beginning: he had no idea what the fuck he was doing.

The Browning family had done what they could to ready him for what a hunter's life was like, but even under their watchful eye, he had still almost died too many times to count. Grace is what kept him coming back.

She was much younger than him, but it had never felt that way. Grace seemed to be more mature than she ever let on and until she had let it slip, he had no idea that she was still in high school. Age had been just a number, though, and until Tru had begun saying things like "statutory rape" and "inappropriate," Paul had never considered their trysts to be anything but natural.

The black eye he was sporting now was proof that he had been wrong.

Truman Browning was a possessive father, but still used his daughter for any means necessary to keep them alive. It was a relationship that Paul didn't understand, but he also didn't question it. As soon as they had gotten out of his truck, Truman turned towards him and clocked him hard enough to knock him to the ground. Paul had been shocked at the time, but the more he thought about it, the more rational the action had been. Now, glancing around the room and trying to keep his breathing even, he wondered how the hell he was going to get himself out of this one.

Paul closed his eyes, picturing the woman that had approached them in the preserve. She had looked normal, but when she had sweetly asked them for directions back to the highway, Paul turned to point over the truck and noticed her reflection in the window. She had looked as if she was decaying; her cheeks were hollow and her teeth showed from behind sinewy muscle. Paul had gasped aloud, trying to turn and defend himself against her punishing blows.

Now, he was tied to a chair and had no idea what to do next. Closing his eyes, Paul realized that Grace would have known what to do. She always knew what to do. It was hard to believe that she was only seventeen.

There was a creak from behind Paul and he strained to turn towards the sound. The woman from the preserve sauntered across the hardwood floor and smiled to herself as she approached her next meal, knowing how pleased her husband would be.

…

Grace screeched to a stop, causing a cloud of dust to billow behind them. Serra was already out of the car, turning towards the line of trees.

"Hold on a sec," Grace was saying, getting out of the car and closing the door quietly. "Just wait."

"Dad needs us," Serra answered, turning back towards her sister. "We know he's somewhere close. Let's just go get him."

"Goddamnit, Serra," Grace breathed. "You can't just go into a forest with your guns blazing. We need to figure out where he is, if there's a wraith there or not… and we also need to keep in mind that they might already know we're here. I have no idea what's around. If this place is under surveillance, we're screwed."

Walking to the trunk, Grace pulled up the deck lid and propped it open with an iron poker. "Wraiths are killed with silver. They look human, but they're fast and strong," she briefed as Serra grudgingly followed her to the trunk. "You need a reflective surface to check if they're wraiths or not."

"Yeah, we've been through all this before," Serra whined. "I got it."

"This is the first time you've been in the field with a gun of your own. I am _not_ going to be the reason one of us gets killed," Grace replied; annoyance flowing from her every orifice. "If there is more than one, we need to be ready. We fight back to back; gun in one hand and a silver blade in the other."

Serra shook her head. "I want to carry both of my guns at the same time. I'm no good hand to hand."

"Fine, but don't waste the ammo. We only have a box for each of us. I don't know how many wraiths there are. Paul couldn't give me a number."

"That's because Paul is an idiot."

Grace rolled her eyes. "He's not an idiot," she argued. "He's inexperienced."

"Same difference."

"Shut up and take these," Grace replied, dumping the box of silver ammunition into the trunk and they both began to load the extra clips that had been in the trunk, ready for action. After a few minutes of silence, Grace spoke again, quietly. "Lead the target, but not so much that you are ahead of it." Serra turned her head, listening to what her big sister had to say. Grace continued, knowing that she had a willing audience. "If you make a kill shot, double tap, just to be safe." Serra nodded. "Don't try and fire with both hands at the same time. You're not as accurate and you'll end up wasting ammo."

"Double tap, one hand at a time. Got it."

Grace took a deep breath through her nose and nodded. "Stay behind me, but cover my back," she said, lowering the deck lid. "We're on radio silence until I say otherwise."

Serra nodded.

With that, Grace turned and headed into the forest with her sister falling in step behind her.

…

Truman paced back and forth across the subterranean basement with his cell phone in his hand. He glanced at the window nervously, checking the position of the sun so often that eventually, he was convinced that the Earth was standing still. It had been over an hour with still no contact from his daughters.

He was getting desperate.

Opening the phone, he clicked the arrow down on his contacts list until he came to Grace's name. His thumb hovered over the 'call' button, but he hesitated, knowing that she was probably in route and that he might be blowing her cover if the volume to her phone was still up. Closing his eyes, he shut the phone once more and returned to pacing around the room.

Minutes passed slowly. As he made his twenty-second pass towards the tiny window to check the sun's progress, he stopped short, seeing a shadow cross over the sunlight that streamed in through the glass. If he hadn't seen it, he wouldn't have believed anything was there: it was still completely silent. There were no leaves rustling and the birds continued to chirp madly in the trees around him. Whatever it was, it moved with such efficiency that it didn't even disturb the wildlife.

Tru smiled to himself. There were only two people that he knew could move as silently as that shadow had.

Grace and Serra were here.

He padded to the window and strained to look through the murky glass into the forest around him. Unable to see anything besides the undergrowth, Tru looked around for something else to stand on besides the PVC bucket he had discovered in the back of the basement.

From his hand, his phone pinged with a message. Tru glanced down and smiled, seeing that he had a text message from Grace.

" _Tiny window?"_ was the entire message.

Slowly and carefully, Tru tapped out a response. _"Saw ur shdw,"_ he typed and shook his head at his spelling. Texting was too much for him, but he understood his daughter's need to stay quiet. He muted the volume on his phone in case it was necessary. _"No 1 here. Come round side."_

Grace's reply was almost instantaneous. _"Cant u fit out the window,"_ came her question. She was obviously more experienced in tapping out the alphanumeric codes. Momentarily, Tru wondered who else she texted.

Annoyed, Tru shook his head. As he was about to tap out a reply, a shadow came across the tiny stream of sunlight again. Looking up, he couldn't help the grin that spread over his face upon seeing his youngest daughter's face through the glass. She waved in response, still gripping one of the twin Colt forty-fives tightly in her hand.

Pointing, Tru gestured to the wooden door on the opposite side of the room. Serra nodded her understanding and stood; her shadow moving away from the window and towards the door. He could hear the jingle of a heavy chain and padlock as the girls struggled to pick it, gaining entrance to the basement. After what seemed like a lifetime, the chain rattled a final time as they pulled it through the metal handles of the wooden door.

From the outside, Grace and Serra struggled to pull the door open, trying their best to stay quiet in the mid-afternoon sunlight. Still feeling like they were being watched, Grace was overly cautious as they finally got a good enough grip on the door handle and Tru pushed, helping the door open from the inside. He ran up the steps and wrapped them both in an embrace, grateful at their ingenuity.

"How did you find me?" he whispered, hugging Grace.

"I told you," she answered, her voice low. "The GPS on your phone."

Tru shook his head, still not understanding, but this was neither the time nor the place to continue the conversation. He looked around, "Where's Paul?"

Grace furrowed her eyebrows. "You were the priority," she answered. "I figured we would find him after we got you." Staring at the look on her father's face, Grace sighed heavily. "What, you thought we'd go after Paul first?"

Tru lifted his eyebrows and shrugged gently. "Well," he began, but Grace didn't give him the chance to finish the sentence. She was already turning back the way they came, heading around the building and back out into the forest.

"We can discuss family loyalty after we save Paul," Grace muttered, pushing herself into a jog into the woods.

The Browning family moved through the forest silently and eventually, Tru led them towards a large house on the edge of the nature preserve. "That's a ranger station," he whispered, pointing at the ornate cabin. "We passed it coming in. There are at least two wraiths."

Grace nodded and glanced at Serra. "You ready?" she asked quietly.

"Yeah," Serra answered. "It's about time."


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

The Browning girls crept their way through the dark forest, making no sound and gesturing to each other occasionally, with Truman taking up the rear, about ten feet behind them. It was their typical hunting pattern when they were approaching unknown territory. Stopping about one hundred yards away from the rugged yet ornate log cabin that housed the ranger station, Grace turned and motioned towards her father.

Pointing, she raised her eyebrows. _Through the front door?_

Truman shrugged in reply and pointed to himself and then towards the back end of the house. _You go, I'll take around back._

Grace nodded her approval and pulled the long silver blade from the holster on her belt. She glanced towards Serra and nodded. Barely breathing, she leaned in to Serra and mouthed, _"If you shoot me, I will kill you."_

Serra smiled wryly and shook her head while rolling her eyes. With that, the girls took off, crouched towards the ground, but moving quickly up the slope that led to the giant log cabin. When they reached the manicured lawn, Tru split away from the girls and headed around the house, moving stealthily towards the rear of the cabin.

Grace took a deep breath, calming her adrenaline. Glancing at her sister, she shook her head at the grin on her face. "You need to chill," Grace whispered into Serra's hair. "This isn't a game."

"Yeah, well," Serra breathed, "sure feels that way."

Ignoring her, Grace stood long enough to peer into the window of the front door. She tested the handle and smiling lightly at their luck, turned the knob silently and let the door swing open slowly. She raised her own Colt forty-five and used the barrel to nudge the door wide enough to step through. The shimmer of the nickel plating glistened in the darkness and the engraving of roses contrasted starkly against the shine.

The entry way was void of people, but a podium greeted them with a guest book and pen, waiting for their names, email addresses, and donations to help with the preservation of National Parks. Grace stepped around the podium as her sister tried to close the door softly. A gust of wind picked up through the house, telling her that the back door had been opened as well. It forced the front door closed with a slam that rattled the front window, even though Serra had thrown her arm towards the door, attempting to slow it down. A pile of brochures flitted to the ground and Grace squeezed her eyes closed, hoping that there had been no one to hear the racket the door had made.

"I'm sorry!" Serra whispered, moving away from the oak door.

Grace shook her off, listening hard. She could almost _feel_ another person in the house with them, so she moved again, heading towards the living room that was filled with dioramas of wildlife found in this part of the country. Serra moved with her as if she was part of her body, slowing when Grace slowed, speeding up when she sped up. As they hesitated in the doorway of the living room, Grace breathed a sigh of relief, seeing that Paul was still alive.

Feeling her sister hesitate, Serra turned towards the direction that Grace faced. "Paul," she sighed, still almost silent. Glancing up at Grace, she smiled, but it faltered at the look on her sister's face. "Trap?"

"Feels that way," Grace replied.

Falling silent once more, Serendipity watched as Grace took a step into the living room, moving closer to Paul. She watched the breezeway above the room on the second floor for movement. Still, nothing happened.

Sensing movement, Paul turned his head as far as he could to try to see behind him. "Look, if you're gonna kill me, just get it over with," he muttered. "I'm getting tired of waiting and my ass is asleep."

"Keep your voice down," Grace whispered. "Where is the wraith?"

The wooden chair creaked under the stress of Paul's turn as he tried to see Grace, knowing it was her voice that carried across the living room. "Grace?" he whispered. "That you?"

She answered with silence as she approached the chair. She flipped open her switch blade and sliced through the duct tape that held Paul to his chair as Serra covered her, raising her guns towards the upstairs landing, where her sister had been looking only seconds before.

Paul rubbed his wrists absentmindedly as Grace cut his ankles free. "Where is the wraith?" she asked again, pocketing her knife and flicking the safety off her gun.

"There're two," Paul answered, standing and glancing around. "Is Tru okay?"

Nodding, Grace turned towards the back of the cabin. "He's clearing the back," she replied. "Where, Paul?"

"I don't know," he said, shaking his head. "She came in to tease about how I would make a perfect dinner for her husband, but she walked away and hasn't been back."

"Then let's get the flock out of here," Serra commented, smiling briefly. She shook her head, slightly disappointed. "I screwed that joke up," she said. "I think I missed the first half of it."

There was a creak from upstairs and Grace moved protectively towards Serra, purely out of habit. "Let's go," Grace whispered.

"What about the wraiths?"

"We'll come back when we're more prepared," Grace answered. "We'll deal with them when we're on our turf."

"Let's deal with each other now, here on _our_ turf," a strong male voice came from behind the group. "I love the taste of hunters. They're always so fresh…so _tart_." The male wraith smiled sweetly as Grace, Serra, and Paul turned towards him slowly. "Do you have any idea what the adrenal gland does for the brain?"

There was movement from behind them as well and Grace shook her head. "God _damn_ it," she breathed.

"See?" the male asked, raising his eyebrows. "Your adrenaline has begun pumping through your system and I can already smell a difference. You will taste…decadent."

Grace heard Serra click the safety off both of her weapons as she mentally prepared for the fight. The hallway door flew open and Truman stood, breathing heavily, holding his silver blade at his side, ready for action. Pivoting her head towards him incrementally, Grace nodded as the living room erupted into action.

Taking a deep breath and following the female target with her guns, Serendipity Browning breathed out slowly and upon her exhale, unloaded four shots, back to back, at the female wraith. She was too fast for her aim, however, and she dove deftly out of sight, hiding behind an enormous oak desk.

"Crap," Serra whispered and held her aim on the desk, waiting for another chance.

Grace had already fired twice at the male wraith, but he ducked out of the way and jumped towards Grace, turning the attack on her. He hit her across the face, hard, knocking her to the ground as Truman fired three times towards him.

Screaming as the silver bullet made contact in his arm, the wraith hissed and launched himself towards Truman, knocking Paul to the ground as he did so. Tru rolled out of the way, moving towards his daughters as he and the male wraith traded places. Truman helped Grace to her feet and nodded encouragingly at his eldest. "We got this," he whispered. "Lead him. Take him down."

Grace nodded as she wiped hair out of her face with her arm and turned towards the female wraith and fired repeatedly towards the oak desk, changing her tactic completely. Truman did the same, but aiming at the male wraith.

Tru and Grace ran out of ammunition at the same time, both dropping their empty clips simultaneously and reloading with one movement. Grace listened, trying to distinguish exactly where the female wraith was hiding.

"They have the advantage," Grace whispered into Serra's ear. "They know the ins and outs of the cabin. Stay alert."

Nodding, Serra listened for anything that would give a hint at the wraiths' location; the man had disappeared into the darkness as well. Truman took a breath and sighed, attempting to calm the ringing in his ears. They pivoted together, Truman and Grace changing positions as they tried to see the cabin from a different angle. Paul was in the middle of their circle, completely unarmed and waiting; his breathing shallow and panicked.

Serra heard it first. The weakened oak desk shifted as something or someone moved behind it. She refocused her aim and fired, getting a scream from the female wraith as her silver bullet found its target. Tru clapped his daughter on the shoulder and moved towards the oak desk to check the damage she caused. Suddenly, Paul gasped as he was shoved to the floor and Grace's forty-five clattered to the ground.

"Don't," the strong, male voice called out. "Don't move," he continued. "Put the blades and the guns on the ground."

Truman and Serra turned slowly towards the sound of the voice and both sighed in tandem as they watched Grace roll her eyes, annoyed at the fact that the wraith held his arm around her neck and chest, clutching her close to his body, and using her as a shield.

"Put your weapons down. All we want to do is leave," the wraith explained. "Annette?" he asked, aiming his voice towards the oak desk. "Annie?" There was a groan from the woman, who was obviously in pain, meaning Serra had made contact with her silver bullets. The sound seemed to raise desperation in the male wraith and he tightened his grip around Grace. "Allow us to leave and you will not be harmed," he growled. "I will take her as insurance."

"You'll die trying," Tru grumbled. "You've been feeding on innocents for weeks. You're not leaving here breathing."

Grace pursed her lips and lifted her blue eyes towards her baby sister, making eye contact across the room. Ever so slightly, she raised one of her eyebrows. It was barely a twitch. It was enough.

In one movement, Grace closed her eyes as Serra raised both of her new guns. Time seemed to slow down and Tru attempted to stop the younger, holding out one of his hands. Serendipity took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, firing twice with each of the matching silver-on-black engraved Colt forty-fives. The four shots echoed through the house and the male wraith collapsed behind Grace, taking her to the ground with him.

"Holy shit," Paul breathed as he followed Tru to the ground, running towards Grace and the male wraith. Serra turned on her heels and strode towards Annette, the female wraith that lay wounded behind the oak desk. With two more shots, Serra ended it with silver through her skull.

Kneeling beside his eldest daughter, he reached for her face tentatively. "Grace?" he whispered. There was blood splattered across her porcelain skin; a wild spray pattern from where Serra had put two bullets through the male's left eye socket.

She opened her bright blue eyes and took a deep breath through her mouth, trying to avoid the blood that dripped down her face. She squinted, keeping the blood from smearing into her eyes. Reaching down, Tru lifted the wraith's arm off of his daughter's chest and helped her up. She used her shirt to wipe the blood from her face and shook her head, trying to clear her head.

"You okay?" Tru asked, glancing back at Serra cautiously.

Grace stared at Serra and nodded slowly. "My ears are still ringing pretty good, but yeah," she explained quietly. She flicked her gaze towards her father and sighed. "You're lucky she's a good shot."


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

The room was silent as Serra dug through the duffle on the bed, looking for her change of clothes. Stepping past Grace, she closed the door behind her as she entered the bathroom to take her turn in the shower.

As soon as he heard the telltale squeak of the old, leaky pipes, Truman wheeled on his eldest daughter with wide eyes, ready for a fight. "What were you _thinking_ letting her take that shot?" Truman lectured, his hands on his hips and leaning towards Grace.

Grace sighed, rolling her eyes as she toweled her long blonde hair dry, "You gave her permission to be risky the second you let her bring those guns home."

"That is _not_ what I gave her permission to do, Grace," Tru slammed his hand down on the desk. "She was supposed to be _back up._ Not make the kill shot."

Spinning to face her father, she shook her head, pointing back at the bathroom door. "You still don't get it, do you?" Grace argued just as forcibly. "Serra is _exactly_ what you trained her to be from the very beginning. Ruthless. Accurate. Impulsive." She threw the towel on the bed. "She's dangerous, Dad, but you made her that way. You've made _both_ of us that way."

"I didn't train you to be stupid."

"No," Grace replied, agreeing with her father. "But you did teach us to protect each other, no matter what."

"She could have killed you," Tru growled. "Another inch to the right and I would have been putting you in the ground."

Clicking her tongue, Grace rolled her eyes, replying, "You would have cremated me."

"Goddammit, Grace," Truman sighed, running his hands through his salt-and-pepper hair. "Why did you give her permission to take that shot?"

Grace stood up to her full height and sighed, letting her wet hair roll into her face, now clean from the blood splatter. "Because no matter what, Dad," she replied, "no matter how much you train us and no matter how many times we make it out by the skin of our teeth, one of these days, we're gonna kick it because of this life, because of the choices that you and Mom made." Grace swallowed hard, fighting the warble in her voice. "One of these days, one of the monsters we hunt is going to remind us that we're mortal." Tru said nothing, so Grace continued. "It might be me. It might be you. It might even be Sere. At least this time, we had the advantage and I would have gone out with the monster."

"Grace…" he pleaded, reaching for her shoulder.

She held up her hand, palm out, and shook her head. "No," she whispered. "Don't touch me, don't try and fix it." She turned away to zip up the small green duffle on the hotel bed. "I need to be away from you for a while and if I was old enough, I would take Serra with me, so if she asks," Grace faded off and closed her mouth. "Well, I don't really know when I'll be back."

Tru moved so that he was standing in front of the motel room door. "What, are you going off with Paul?" He shook his head and muttered to himself, "Ungrateful idiot."

"What if I was?"

Tru licked his lips. "You're only seventeen. You're still a minor."

Grace shrugged. "Yeah, well," she sighed, moving past him. "How are you going to stop me?" He allowed her to pass and turned to face the open doorway. She threw her duffle over her shoulder and began her trek out of the parking lot. "Bye, Dad."

"Grace," he breathed, trying to think of something, anything to stop her.

…

The bathroom door opened and Serra unrolled the shirt that had tangled around her rib cage. She glanced around, seeing her father standing in the open doorway of the motel room and asked, "What are you doing?"

Her voice seemed to wake him from some kind of trance. "Oh, uh," he stuttered. "Nothing. Just getting some air."

Nodding, Serra turned back towards her bed and collapsed on top of the blankets. "Where's Gracie?" she asked, taking the slide off of one of her guns to polish it with the microfiber cloth she held.

Tru took a deep breath and tilted his head at his youngest daughter. "It's just you and me, kiddo," he whispered, sitting down on the bed next to her.

Serra stopped polishing and stared at her father, her mouth dropping open. "What are you talking about?" she asked.

"Grace left," he answered, too quickly.

"Left?"

He sighed heavily, trying to find a place to sit on the bed that didn't cause him emotional pain. He wound his hands together, trying to figure out the best way to explain it to his youngest daughter. "She's pissed, Lucky. Really mad," he tried.

"At me?"

Truman was shaking his head before she had finished asking the question. "No, no, no, baby," he replied immediately. "She's mad at me."

Serra turned to stare out the motel window. "Why?"

"Because," Tru began, "Grace is very protective of you and she thinks that you aren't old enough to have your guns. She thinks that I'm a bad parent because of the life we lead."

Serendipity faced her father once more. "Are you?"

He regarded her for a long time, staring into her deep hazel eyes. They were greener than brown, and as she furrowed her eyebrows towards him, waiting for his answer; he realized how much she resembled her mother, Evangeline. His wife. His love.

How he missed her.

"Yes," he finally breathed. "Yes, I am. I'm a terrible father, dragging you around the country, chasing after things that want nothing more than to kill you."

Serra looked up at him and smiled sadly. "And that thought is why you're not a bad parent. You're doing the best you can, Daddy. She's just different. She's…she's always been different, but it's not her fault." She licked her lips, searching for the right words. "Just let Grace be Grace."

"I don't understand how you're only eleven."

Grinning, Serra leaned back and picked up the television remote, the sentiment already gone. "Yeah, well," she sighed. "Can you move? I want to watch _Animaniacs_."

Truman pressed his lips together holding back a chuckle. "There it is," he whispered, getting up from the bed. He leaned back on the wall behind the bed to read the rest of the local newspaper.

About midway through her show, Serra glanced up at him and took a deep breath, smiling, still holding the slide of her gun. "When I'm eighteen, I'm gonna get a tattoo of the engravings. They're so beautiful."

"You, young lady, will do nothing of the sort," Tru answered, tilting his head and staring at his daughter. "Tattoos are ugly and permanent. They will ruin your beautiful skin. There is no room for a tattoo on my daughters' bodies."

Serra rolled her eyes. "Give me a break," she sighed. "Grace wants them too. They're so beautiful. Each one is a work of art." Tru was still shaking his head. "Besides, I've seen other hunters with protective sigils tattooed on. They're not ugly."

"The answer is no," Truman stated, ending the conversation. "No daughter of mine will ever be etched."

…

Grace Browning stood in front of a full-length mirror, holding her Triumph motorcycle shirt above her exposed hip, staring at her reflection. She turned slightly, seeing the drawing from all angles and nodded once to herself, approving the design.

"It's beautiful," she commented, walking back to the tattoo artist who was pulling on black gloves and laying out varying colors of tiny inkpots. "I like the detail."

"How are these colors?" the tattoo artist asked, gesturing to the inkpots as he tested his machine.

Grace glanced at the teals, purples, oranges, and reds, nodding her approval once more. "Yeah," she agreed. "They're perfect."

"Okay," he said, taking a breath. "Lay down here. Get comfortable. This is gonna suck."

Taking a deep, shaky breath, Grace nodded. "I'm used to pain," she whispered. "I'm hoping maybe this will remind me that I'm still alive."

The tattoo artist held her gaze a moment longer than he needed to, knowing exactly how she felt. "We've all been there, kid," he sighed. "Some more than others." He considered her for a moment and nodded. "You, more than most." Grace remained silent, still staring at the older man. "I don't agree to tattoo these on anybody that asks for it. To have a calavera… It means something, you know? There's a history there."

Grace nodded, "I know," she answered. "It's a tribute. A reminder of those who have passed." She took a heavy breath. "A reminder that we're mortal and someday, hopefully we'll be one that someone else will remember."

"And that, little girl," the tattoo artist's dark brown eyes sparkled behind his heavy lids. "That is why I agreed."

Lying on the padded table, Grace turned her head so that the man would not be able to see the tear that dripped down her face. She rolled her tee shirt up under itself and tucked it into her bra. Then she rolled her jeans inward to allow her hip to show completely.

As the hum of the tattoo needle began, Grace braced herself for the pain, but she was already so numb, emotionally as well as physically, she barely felt it. She closed her eyes and allowed the vibration to sink into her very soul, permanently marking the ghosts of her past and reminding her that she needed a future.


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

It was almost four in the morning when Grace waved to the man that she had hitched a ride from right outside of Kansas City. He took her almost to the driveway of her family's house after her visit to the tattoo studio. She had moved quickly, finding her ride, and trying her best to get out ahead of her father and sister. She knew from experience that Serra was a slow traveler and though she was frustrating at times, her exaggerated time frame was exactly what Grace needed in order to spend some time alone before they got back.

Grace sighed when she saw the old, rusty Chevy C10 parked on the curb. Emery's truck was waiting for her return and she knew that already, her pseudo-mother would know she was home. Grace loved Emery very much, but it was times like these that she wished she would mind her own business.

Silently, she unlocked the door and pushed her way inside. Pocketing her keys in the darkness, she crept across the living room towards the staircase and made her way up towards her room. When the top step creaked under her weight, Grace pressed her lips together, silently cursing her forgetfulness. The telltale squeak of her father's bedroom door told her it had been opened and Emery had heard the staircase. She waited at the bottom of the steps for Grace to acknowledge her.

"I just want to go to bed," Grace said quietly. "I'm tired."

"Your Daddy called yesterday. Said you took off," Emery ignored Grace's request and pressed on. "What happened in Whitewater?"

Very slowly, Grace turned around to face Emery, defeated. "He bought her guns. I let her take a shot that could have killed me." She shrugged. "That's the short version, anyway."

"And Paul?"

More shrugging. "I don't know. I haven't seen him since we dropped him at his motel."

Emery closed her mouth and turned away from Grace, sitting on the barstool behind her. "He made it to sound like you ran away with that boy," she sighed. "I really wish he would start learning you."

Grace closed her eyes and let her head fall to her chest in defeat. "You and me both, Em," she sighed. "You and me both."

"And your sister?" Emery crossed her arms. "How'd she do with the wraiths?"

Pressing her tongue against the back of her teeth, Grace tried to find the words to describe Serendipity's talent. "She's a natural," she sighed. "No hesitation. It's like those guns were a part of her."

Emery's dark eyes stared at Grace in the moonlit dawn. "She made the kill shots?"

Grace nodded. "Like she had been doing it for years," she whispered. "Everything I told her, everything I taught her, she remembered. She put every word into action." Grace stared at her fingernails. "I can't even do that. I can say the words, but I can never put all of it together." She sighed heavily and rubbed her eyes. "She's a machine...a little scary."

"She's eleven."

"Yeah, that's what I keep telling everyone."

Emery was quiet and drew circles on the granite countertop as she considered what to say. "I've always wondered about you girls," she began. "Your Daddy has you under lock and key, doesn't seem to understand your potential."

"He's trying to be protective," Grace answered. "Just comes out annoying."

Emery nodded. "I've been trying to tell him that since I met him. If he's going to spend all this time training you girls up, he has to understand that you're going to want to go out and use what he's taught you." She folded her hands in her lap and stared into Grace's blue gaze. "He tries to ignore that you two are different."

Grace pressed her lips together. "She's normal. I'm the freak."

"Neither one of you girls is a freak," Emery commented quietly. "You just have a different pile of talents than that baby sister of yours. You _see_ people. Serendipity will protect you from what you see."

"She's eleven."

"Not for long."

Lifting her eyebrows, Grace tilted her head, agreeing. "We do make a pretty good team," she replied. "She moves with me, almost seems to sense what I am going to do before I do it." Grace glanced up at Emery. "Takes direction with facial expressions."

"Just like she's been taught," Emery nodded. "That girl can be the best little solider she can be, with you leading her."

"What if I don't want to?" Grace asked. "What if I don't want to do this for the rest of my life? What then?"

"Then you go out," Emery took Grace's hand and waited the customary three seconds for her thoughts and memories to stop crossing Grace's subconscious to continue. "You go out and find your other half. You find the man that loves you for you, not for what you let him believe about you. Your sister will follow."

Grace stared down at Emery's hands, covering her own. "She loves the hunt, Em," she whispered. "How can I take that away from her?"

Emery took a long time to answer, tracing Grace's long slender fingers with her nail. "Don't think of it as taking it away. Think of it as guiding her in a different direction."

Grace stared at Emery, her expression deadpan, "You could take lying and make it a profession."

The corner of Emery's lips tucked into a wry grin, "Not lying. Manipulation."

"Same difference," Grace answered, turning away from Emery and reaching for an orange from the bowl on the counter. She winced slightly when the corner of the granite touched her newly inked hip.

There was no fooling Emery. She glanced down at Grace's waistline and made a face. "You get scratched by the wraith?"

"Huh? Oh," Grace flicked her gaze towards the counter and covered her hip with her palm. "Yeah. Sucker got me good."

"Let me clean it out," Emery offered, reaching for her shirt.

Immediately, Grace backed away and held out her hand. "No, thanks, Em," she said, breathing shallowly. "I'm okay. I'm good."

Emery tilted her head. "You could take lying and make it into a profession," she repeated Grace's words back to her ironically. She bent her fingers, gesturing towards Grace. "Give it up. Let's see."

"I'm fine," Grace repeated.

"Prove it," Emery wouldn't let up.

Slowly, Grace closed her eyes and hung her head, finally giving into Emery's persistence. Slowly, she held up her tee shirt and pulled down the waistband of her jeans, showing Emery the still-tender tattoo emblazoned on her hip. She had followed the tattoo artist's instructions to the letter, leaving the bandage on until she had showered the previous evening. Grace had tenderly taken off the adhesive tape that held the bandage on and inspected it in the mirror of the truck stop where she had cleaned up before sleeping on a bench outside of Denver. She used the last three dollars she had in her possession to buy the ointment that he had prescribed and lathered it on carefully.

Now, as Emery stared at the brightly colored calavera on her hip, Grace's heart beat harder than it had ever done in the past. She was more scared now than she had been when taken hostage by the wraith, just forty-eight hours before. Grace held her breath as Emery gathered her thoughts.

Finally, Emery nodded. "A sugar skull," she commented quietly. "It's a good choice."

Grace's breath came out in a puff of air, relief flooding through her. "You're not mad?" she asked, leaning on the counter behind her.

"Honey," Emery began, approaching her slowly. "There are far bigger things to worry about than a seventeen-year-old hunter getting a skull tattoo. It's beautifully done and honestly, I'm surprised it's taken this long for you to end up inked. You've been talking about getting a tattoo since I met you, baby girl."

"I have?"

"Whether you knew I was listening or not, I've heard you girls talk about them," Emery explained, bending down in front of Grace to get a better look. "Really, it's one of the only ways that hunters can keep memories with them. We have to travel kind of light."

Grace chuckled ironically. "Yeah," she whispered.

"Try and get Serra to wait a bit before she gets something permanently etched into her body, please?" Emery requested, backing away with a smile on her face. "That girl is impulsive. I would hate to have to try and explain why she has a cartoon character on her shoulder to your father."

Grace laughed and let her shirt unroll. "She's already planning on getting the engravings from her new guns as tattoos. I told her she should just have the entire thing put on her hip, gunslinger style."

"That sounds like Sere," Emery smiled. "Let's just keep this to ourselves until you're old enough to argue your way out of it with your Daddy."

"I'm not old enough to do that now?"

"You know what I mean." Emery sighed and ran her hands through her graying hair. "Get up to bed, baby," she continued. "I'll have something ready for breakfast when you get up."

"Thanks, Em," Grace replied, reaching for a hug. "For everything."

…

Grace slept through the morning and woke for a late lunch. Emery kept her promise, hearing Grace come down the steps; she started the sizzle of bacon and eggs. As the kitchen door swung wide, Grace stumbled through and allowed herself to collapse at the kitchen table.

"You needed the sleep," Em commented to Grace's silence. "It's almost three."

Nodding, Grace rubbed her face. "I guess I didn't need to worry about studying for that Algebra test, then, huh?"

"Was that today?"

"Yeah," she sighed, letting her head fall and rest on the table. "I'm not gonna graduate."

Emery turned, holding the pan of bacon over a plate and dumping the crisp strips onto the ceramic. She was shaking her head as she cracked two eggs into the bacon grease and began to whip them together. "You will be fine, Grace," she answered, still staring at the pan. "You're smart as a whip. Smarter than all of us."

"None of that will matter if I don't go to class."

Emery shrugged. "Eat your bacon."


	17. Chapter 17

::I hope everyone enjoyed _Etched._ This is our final chapter! It was a lot of fun to write and gave you a bigger peek into what Serra and Grace were like growing up. These girls are close to my heart, so I love giving them as much "screen time" as our favorite Boys. Thank you so much for reading and coming up, we've got our next installment of Winchester Ranch, _War._ Things are heating up (again!) and I hope you join me in the adventure.

lots of internetty love and hugs,

TheGirlWithTheDinosaurTattoo::

...

Chapter 17

Truman glanced over at his sleeping daughter as he passed another mile marker on the dark Kansas highway. They were about fifteen minutes from home, finally, and he couldn't wait to take a long, hot shower and wash the last seventy-two hours down the drain. Serra would be happy to be back in the house as well…he already knew that if Grace wasn't there when they arrived, Serra would be sleeping in Grace's bed until the elder returned.

She shifted in her seat next to him and woke suddenly, lifting her head from the window. "Grace?" she gasped, sitting up.

"Hey," Tru soothed, reaching out for Serra's shoulder. "You're okay. We're still driving."

Serra seemed confused, glancing at her father and shaking off his touch. "I know," she said, defensive. "I'm fine."

"Okay, Sass," he chuckled, withdrawing his hand. Changing subjects, he gripped both hands on the steering wheel and stared forward. "I'll bet you Emery is home," he said. "What do you think she'll make us to eat?"

Serra rubbed her face and stared out the front windshield. "Pancakes," she replied without hesitation. "She always makes breakfast when we get home from a hunt."

Tru nodded at the accuracy behind the statement. "Maybe she'll have some bacon, too."

Smiling, Serra agreed. She rested her hands on the twin forty-fives that sat on the seat beside her. "They're the most beautiful guns I've ever seen," she whispered, still touching them carefully. "I mean, I thought The Judge was pretty, but she's got nothing on these two."

"They are pretty weapons," Truman answered, glancing down. "But remember; they're just that. They're weapons, Serendipity. They stay in lock-up when we're at home. You don't talk about them at school. This is exactly the kind of thing Social Services would love to get their hands on."

"I know, Daddy," Serra countered. "Grace went through all of that with me already. I'm not gonna do anything stupid."

"When we get home, I want you to shower and get to sleep so you can go back to school tomorrow."

Serra nodded once, staring out into the night. "You think Grace is home yet?"

"I don't know, kiddo," he answered, sighing heavily. "I'll bet she is. She wanted to take that Algebra test."

"That was yesterday."

"She's a fast traveler," Tru argued. "Even hitching."

Serra was silent as they pulled into the driveway minutes later, passing Emery's C10 truck as they parked. Serra wasted no time and hopped out of the Chevelle, taking the three porch steps in one jump. Emery was sitting on the couch, drinking her nightly tea and flipping through a magazine when Serra ran in. She smiled up at her and opened her arms for a hug.

"Hi, Em!" Serra greeted. "Is Grace here?"

Emery smiled and brushed auburn hair out of Serra's hazel eyes. "Yes, my renegade. She's upstairs, sleeping, I think."

Serra gave her a quick peck on the cheek and took the steps two at a time to greet her sister. Slowly, she opened Grace's bedroom door without knocking and tiptoed in, moving silently across the carpet. Grace was sleeping, but it was restless. She was mumbling quietly and flailing against her blankets. Furrowing her eyebrows, Serra sighed and walked out of the room, jumping into the shower and rinsing off before changing into pajamas and rejoining her sister.

Grace was still in the throws of a nightmare, so Serra reached and gently pulled down the covers and climbed into bed next to her. As soon as she made physical contact with Grace, she calmed and took a deep stuttering breath, rolling closer to Serendipity. Reaching out, Serra put a hand on her arm and held her hand. Nestling close, Serra almost instantly fell asleep next to her favorite person in the world. Their world was safe as long as they were together.

Downstairs, as Tru and Emery unloaded the Chevelle, Serendipity's twin, silver-on-black engraved Colt forty-fives rested on the tabletop, sitting happily on the microfiber cloth they came with. They were home and safe, ready and waiting for the next time their one true owner would need them for protection.


End file.
